


All for Her

by ichaelis



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:35:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22947154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ichaelis/pseuds/ichaelis
Summary: Geralt has finally found Ciri on the Isle of Mists. Now it's time to make one last stand against Eredin and the Wild Hunt. On the eve of battle, Geralt and his companions - including those he once thought lost - reminisce and prepare for war. And Ciri realizes that the peace she'd been searching for her entire life was always closer than she thought.AU where Geralt's hansa survived the Battle of Stygga Castle. Mild re-telling of the end of The Witcher III: Wild Hunt.
Relationships: Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach/Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon
Comments: 16
Kudos: 65





	1. Chapter 1

Despite the looming prospect of a proper night's sleep and an equally proper supper, Geralt's mood was sour. The black, silk tunic with lacy ruffles and polished, silver buttons that he was forced to wear itched like mad, the lace tickling his throat. And the breeches were so tight he was forced to walk bow-legged, like he'd ridden Roach for three weeks nonstop, for fear he'd tear a seam.

Yennefer, he imagined, would insist that he was being fussy - she much preferred him in the coiffed threads of perfumed princes than his typical hunting leathers that forever smelled of onion - and he supposed, in some, small way, she would be right. He _was_ being fussy. He hated court politics and he hated that he was again being dragged into them. 

But... _Ciri_. If Emhyr's suspicions were correct, if she was in trouble…

"Geralt of Rivia!" 

A familiar voice broke into Geralt's thoughts and he stopped. The voice, echoing off the high, marble walls, belonged to a Nilfgaardian nobleman that was speaking to a messenger in the corner of the hall. The messenger's pimpled face was flushed, his hair tousled from intense riding.

The nobleman was perhaps thirty or so, with a head of neatly trimmed, but somehow still wild, black curls, wearing a fine, leather tunic with black, knee-high riding boots, matching calf-skin gloves and a decorative, gold gorget inset with four, large, egg-shaped rubies. A short cape the colour of aged Est Est and embroidered in several, elaborate fleur di lis, hung, pinned to one shoulder with a broach shaped like a star.

No, Geralt remembered. _Not_ Nilfgaardian. 

"Cahir Mawr Dyffryn," Geralt said slowly. "I thought you…"

Cahir, the emphatically not-Nilfgaardian, clapped the messenger on the shoulder, then turned from him to cross the candle-lit hall over to where Geralt was standing, struggling to keep his mouth from hitting the floor. 

Geralt hadn't seen the Black Knight since the battle of Stygga Castle. The last thing he'd heard, Cahir had been cut near in two by Leo Bonhart, the bounty hunter.

"Died? I thought so too," Cahir said, taking Geralt's outstretched hand in a half-hug. He pat the White Wolf's back firmly. With his little finger, he pointed to a long, ragged scar that began over his left ear, passed his temple, and ended near the corner of his mouth. "This is not even the worst of them."

Mererid, the Emperor’s chamberlain, cleared his throat, impatiently.

“Mererid,” Cahir said with a friendly nod, like he was noticing the chamberlain for the first time. “Forgive my interruption. Geralt is a close friend. I was hoping to speak with him – reminisce.”

“Count Dyffryn, I’m certain His Imperial Majesty - ”

“Would have no cause for concern,” he finished for the elder man. “I will see that the Witcher is where he needs to be. Come, Geralt; we should talk.”

"I'm supposed to speak with Yennefer," Geralt replied. 

“Ah…I should have known. Mererid? The Lady Yennefer. She waits in the Witcher’s chambers, I presume?”

“That is so.”

“Have her escorted to my office,” he instructed. Then, “Actually, no. Forget I said that. She won’t like that. Hm…Pass on the invitation. She’ll find her own way, I’m sure.”

The chamberlain nodded with a bow. “Of course. I’ll see that the Lady Yennefer receives the message, My Lord.”

Falling into step behind Cahir, Geralt let out a low chuckle. “So it’s Lord now, is it?”

“Why so surprised?” the Black Knight wondered. “Ceallach, my father, is Lord of Darn Dyffra, in Vicovaro.”

“I’m not, not really,” Geralt said.

“Strange though it may seem,” Cahir laughed, “I’m more than an incompetent knight, I swear.”

“Never said otherwise,” the Witcher replied. “You seem to be comfortable here.”

“As comfortable as a Witcher hunting Nekkers,” he said, heading into the palace’s Western wing.

Cahir’s office lay near the end of the hall, passed several suits of polished Nilfgaardian steel and black shields bearing the Great Sun of the Empire hanging from pegs. Sentries stood watch outside the room, so still that Geralt might have thought they too were merely statues but for the barely perceptible rise of their chests.

“Impressive,” Geralt said, scanning the cluttered room. It was a large space, only slightly smaller than Emhyr’s office, separated with ironworks partitions. A fire had been lit in the hearth, large enough for Geralt to walk into, on the far wall, behind the narrow, rectangular table set with silverware, to chase out the chill of the evening. The other walls were lined with bookshelves overflowing with cracked, faded, leather-bound tomes, so thick Geralt suspected that they could shatter toes.

“Isn’t it?” Cahir smirked. “But enough of that for now. I’m starved.”

The table was set with a number of plates: beef stew, chalk full of vegetables, blackened bread, boiled eggs and cheese with a hard, red rind and creamy, salted center, olives stuffed with peppers, salmon, sliced into long strips, topped with onion rings and sprinkled with chopped flower petals and lemon, roast capon on a bed of boiled carrots, lettuce and potatoes. Geralt’s mouth started to water.

Cahir relieved his servants so they could speak freely. It meant, however, that they had to serve themselves. Cahir started by pouring a cup of Fiorano for Geralt, the red wine catching the firelight.

“So – ever plan on explaining what happened?”

“Long story,” Cahir replied, filling his own cup. He took a sip, testing the flavour on his tongue.

“We have time.”

“To be honest, I can’t remember much of that time.” Cahir shrugged. “The last thing I remember was fighting that whoreson, Bonhart. Ciri had convinced him I was a Witcher. Hoped to frighten him, I suppose. I’m not sure he really believed her, but for some time I thought I might beat him.”

Cahir clearly remembered scuffling with Bonhart in the halls of Stygga Castle. He’d sent Ciri off with Angoulême, hoping the women would be safe. He remembered the clang of steel on steel as he and Bonhart crossed swords. The bounty hunter was fast for his size, but Cahir was no slouch. He’d met every one of the large man’s blows, cornered him and even managed to kneel the fish-eyed fucker between the thighs. But then Bonhart had hit him with his pommel, cracked his temple, caused spots to form in Cahir’s eyes. Bonhart stole the chance to break free, carving his face in two with his sword.

The blood bursting from his skull made Cahir’s eyes sting even more. Blind, he stumbled, and Bonhart brought his sword across Cahir’s chest, cleaving him from neck to navel, slicing through his sternum and each of his ribs. Cahir had fallen to his knees, blood filling his mouth, tumbling from his lips in long, sticky strings. He remembered feeling his own entrails seeping from the wound and pressing his palms to his stomach to keep them inside. Then, blackness.

Next thing he knew, he was in the Citadel in the City of the Golden Towers, bandaged head to toe and chained to a bed, both patient and prisoner. Every inch of him hurt, every muscle on fire. He later learned that it took several sorcerers, and countless elixirs, to stitch the bones, muscles and tendons back together.

“Eventually, when I was well enough to leave my bed, Emhyr put me on trial for treason.”

“Generous,” Geralt muttered.

“I likely would’ve been executed,” he said, ignoring the Witcher’s comment, “had it not been for Angoulême’s testimony.”

“Angoulême? She survived?”

“And Milva. They’ve long since returned to Brokolin,” Cahir insisted. “I know, it sounds impossible. We both saw what happened to her – shot straight through. I still remember the blood. Oceans of blood. How she survived that…”

“And Regis? Going to say that he survived too?”

Cahir shook his head. “I’ve not seen him since that night.”

“Probably because I saw him melt into nothing but sludge,” Geralt said, remembering the blinding column of fire that Vilgefortz had summoned to subsume the High Vampire. Noble Regis – Regis, who had no reason to be there but for love of his human friends – screaming as his bat-shaped body boiled, crumbling into a mess of bubbling flesh and blood.

“Perhaps. But he’s survived worse. I wouldn’t be surprised if the old Vampire is still out there,” Cahir said with a chuckle and licked wine from his lips. “Maybe we will all meet again – you and me and Angoulême and Milva and Regis. And Dandelion can sing one of those filthy poems he likes so much. We can share some of Regis’ mandrake moonshine by the fire, like we would back then.”

Despite himself, Geralt smiled. “That would be something.”

“Anyways, as I was saying: the Emperor hadn’t forgotten my betrayal – I can hardly fault him for that – but he couldn’t overlook the fact that, in my own way, I’d saved Ciri from Bonhart. Bought her time – a chance to breathe. It was later that I learned that it was she who finally killed that monster.”

“She’s strong,” Geralt said with a nod. His stomach murmured painfully, but Cahir seemed content to wait for Yennefer before eating. Geralt knew it would be rude to start without either of them.

“In the end, thanks to Angoulême’s testimony, and Father’s influence, the Emperor had me fully pardoned,” Cahir continued. “Reinstated my titles too.”

As Cahir finished his story, Yennefer entered, strolling in like she was fashionably late to a banquet in Novigrad.

 _Finally_ , Geralt thought. Perhaps she had read his mind, or perhaps he simply wore his irritation on his face like a mask. Either way, Yennefer frowned, her lips twisting.

Once she found her seat, they started to eat. Geralt filled his plate with a bit of everything; he hadn’t had eaten this well in months. Yennefer, in typical fashion, had only a sliver of salmon with a few olives and a cup of wine. And Cahir started with a boiled egg, tapping the top on the edge of his plate and peeling off the outer shell – the Imperial way.

As they ate, filling the room with clinking silverware, Geralt peppered the raven-haired sorceress with enquiries regarding Ciri. If she was certain that Ciri was back, how the Wild Hunt – the legion of mythical spectres – found them, what they wanted from her, where she was last seen.

But it was Cahir that answered this time. “Accounts place Ciri in Novigrad and Velen.”

“Don’t look so surprised, Geralt," Yennefer said with a grin. "It was Cahir that contacted me, spoke to Emhyr on our behalf.”

Geralt set his feline stare on the Black Knight. “You…?”

He nodded solemnly. “Ever since I recovered, I’ve kept my ears open for news on Ciri.”

"Why not search for her, then? Why contact Yennefer?”

"Believe me, if I had my way, I would. But my relationship with Ciri has been...complicated," Cahir explained. "I never really had the chance to explain myself to her, to beg forgiveness for what I set in motion. I was concerned that if she learned we - by that I mean the Empire, of course - were searching for her, she might panic.

"Besides, Emhyr may have pardoned my past transgressions, but he hardly trusts me. To be fair, I failed him twice before, so I'm not so sure I would have trusted me myself."

Geralt nodded, remembering the nightmares that had plagued Ciri since she was a child - nightmares of Cahir on his pure, black stallion chasing her through Cintra’s smoke-filled streets. Twice, Emhyr had hired the man to capture Ciri, bring her South, though neither of them knew the reason why. 

And Geralt thought better than to bring it up. He swore he would never share Emhyr's secret - that before Emhyr had told Ciri he was her long-lost father, Urcheon, he planned to marry her, his own child. No. Geralt swore he'd never tell because he knew what would happen otherwise. And Cahir, though a Southerner, was a friend; a close one.

"Makes sense. So now what?”

Yennefer explained that she would head to Ard Skellg, where an explosion had recently felled half an ancient forest. She was convinced that Ciri had somehow been involved. Geralt, meanwhile, was instructed to head to Velen, where Cahir’s informant waited with eyewitness testimonies. Then, he’d need to find his way into Novigrad.

Cahir confessed he would have to remain there, in the Palace with Emhyr, to help oversee the war.

“Mhm…” Geralt mumbled.

“Don’t, Geralt,” Cahir said, tersely. “Despite everything, I’m still a man of the Empire. And I believe in Emhyr’s vision of the future. Nevertheless, I’m in no mood to have this conversation.”

He chose not to press the issue.

The following morning, Cahir saw Geralt off in the palace stables. Yennefer had left for Skellige sometime in the night, through a portal. Geralt hated portals - nothing terrible had happened to him so far. Still, there was always a first time…

As Geralt packed the last of his provisions into Roach's saddlebags, securing them with buckles, Cahir fed the Chestnut mare an apple from his pocket. She let out a pleased whinny, and Geralt muttered something about spoiling the beast. In his line of work, he knew better than to become sentimental about his steed.

Geralt climbed into his saddle.

Cahir pat Roach’s flank, then became serious and stepped back so he wouldn’t be knocked over. He met the Witcher’s cat-like eyes. “Find her.”

Geralt saw the concern in Cahir’s eyes, knew how much Ciri meant to him, how much he loved her. He’d risked his life several times to ensure her safety. It must’ve been killing him, not to be by Geralt’s side.

“I will. I swear. And Cahir?”

“Hm?”

The White Wolf clasped his shoulder. “Thank you.”


	2. Chapter 2

Every time Geralt spoke to Emhyr var Emreis, he left the Emperor’s office with fire in his veins. It took everything he had not to leap over the long, mahogany table, kicking over the carved statuettes that peppered the Continental map, and clock Emhyr in the face, perhaps knock out a few of his perfectly straight teeth. If not for the fact that it was what bound him to Ciri, Geralt often wished he’d never saved that man’s miserable life, never stopped Calanthe’s men from skewering him like a pig on a spit.

He stormed through the central hall, his footfalls like rolls of thunder, cracking over the mountaintops. Nilfgaardian nobles, speaking in low whispers between themselves, couldn’t help staring as he passed, noticing the cat-like eyes shimmering in the half-light, the two sheathed swords hanging on his back. He heard mutterings of “brute”, “freak”, and “mutant” behind cupped hands and fans made of lacy silk. How’d the Emperor stand such a creature in his palace? they wondered, believing they were being polite by whispering, not realizing his inhuman ears heard them as clearly as if they had shouted.

Cahir had been waiting, leaning on one of the thick, limestone pillars lining the hall with his legs crossed, for Geralt to emerge from Emhyr's office and fell into step behind the Witcher. “Geralt, wait!”

“Can’t wait,” he replied simply. He needed to reach the Isle of Mists before Eredin - had to find Ciri. He’d wasted enough time calling in favours, hoping one of the fools he’d helped would stick their necks out for _him_ for once.

Geralt pressed his teeth together behind his lips. No, that wasn’t fair; not everyone had refused to help him. Ermion, Hjalmar, Roche, Triss and Zoltan all came through for him. And even Dandelion insisted on coming, though he was no warrior. He needed to see the battle firsthand, he'd said, so that when he wrote his inevitable ballad, he knew the truth of what had happened. It wouldn't stop the bard from embellishing events, but Geralt had more important things to worry about.

Cahir sprinted a few steps ahead and cut him off. He pressed a hand into Geralt's hard chest. It was like pushing back the face of a mountain. "I said _wait_."

"Move that hand or I'll snap it like a twig," Geralt hissed, meeting the Black Knight's sky blue eyes. His lips peeled back over his teeth.

But Cahir wasn't worried. Geralt was mad, that much was clear. Whatever Emhyr had said to him set him off. But he was only venting. More than once the Witcher had threatened to end him – and back then he'd reason to. But more than once, the Witcher had spared his life. Cahir learned not to take those insults or threats seriously.

Still, he lowered his hand.

"What happened in there? It was about Ciri, wasn't it? Something's happened to her. Something terrible." His voice fell to a whisper. "That Uma creature. Was it…?"

"No," Geralt replied, shaking his head. He looked out into the courtyard nearby, where nobles were conversing softly and enjoying the sunny weather while it lasted. A couple were half-hidden in the neatly trimmed shrubs, their bodies close, faces flushed. What would Geralt sacrifice for the chance to be so carefree? "Fortunately, it wasn't her."

"Thank the Great Sun," Cahir sighed and his muscles visibly relaxed. "Then who?"

“An Elven Sage. Avallac'h’s his name. I know him, kind of. Not sure I trust him though."

 _But the enemy of my enemy is my friend_ , Geralt thought. _At least for now_...

Avallac'h was his only remaining lead to Ciri. Everything else he'd investigated had resulted in more questions than they'd answered. He knew that he would have to trust Avallac'h if he hoped to find her. Besides which, Eredin hadn't cursed him for no reason. Somehow, the Elf had pissed off the King of the Hunt. Whatever he was planning...Well. Geralt would cross that bridge later. Right now, reaching the Isle – reaching _Ciri_ \- was his only priority.

“Apparently, he's been helping Ciri – helped her escape the Hunt on several occasions," he said. "Taught her to control her powers too."

“He knows where Ciri is now, then?”

A confirming mumble. “He says he left her on the Isle of Mists off the coast of Skellige. An enchanted island, so it's not easy to find or reach. Claims she’s safe there, but I’m not so sure. Eredin has found her before.

"I'm on my way now. Only stopped by here to ask Emhyr for a favour. Once I've located Ciri, I'll bring her back to Kaer Morhen. The Wild Hunt will follow her there; of that I'm sure. We plan to lure the Hunt into a trap, finally free Ciri from them.

"But it won't be easy. Not counting Eredin's Red Riders, the Hunt's made of legions of skilled Elven warriors. I was hoping to call in some favours. Gather men for the fight. Figured the Emperor would be more than happy to lend some troops.”

“And he refused?” Cahir couldn’t believe it. If there was one thing Emhyr valued more than the Empire, it was Ciri’s life. She was his only child; the heir to his throne.

The Witcher’s expression soured further. "He offered to send some men to Kaer Morhen, but insisted on having Morvran Voorhis command the operation. Said no. No way I’m letting Nilgaardians take command."

“Geralt…” Morvran was a veteran of several successful campaigns. A strong leader.

“No, Cahir. Save it." Geralt snarled before Cahir could make his point. "This isn’t like Cintra or Sodden. This is the _Wild Hunt_. Kaer Morhen is my home. _I_ know it, know the fortress, the valley. I’m not risking Ciri’s safety so that Emhyr can come stomping in, swinging his prick like the king of the fucking world.”

Cahir frowned. Geralt was being foolish, refusing hundreds of battle-hardened soldiers because of his own pride. There was nothing stopping the Witcher from strategizing with Morvran. Perhaps there was something that the Nilfgaardian would see that Geralt had missed. Despite his own victories on the battlefield, Geralt was a Witcher - born to fight monsters, not lead men into large-scale war.

But he kept those thoughts to himself. He knew Geralt well enough to know that nothing would change his mind. Especially not when Ciri was involved. Pressing him would only provoke him, make him madder than he was. And now, more than ever, they needed to be on the same side.

"Now, I _really_ need to leave. Wasted enough time." Geralt pushed his way passed the Black Knight, knocking him to one side with his shoulder.

Cahir followed Geralt out into the bailey, where blacksmiths were forging steel into weapons. A stablehand was brushing Roach with a stiff-bristled brush, combing fleas from her soft, brown coat. She snorted, stamping a hoof when she smelled the Witcher on the wind.

"And what if I lead them?" Cahir called from behind him.

Geralt stopped and looked over his shoulder, eyes narrowed. "What?"

"Would you accept a banner of Emhyr's troops," Cahir said cautiously, like he was holding out a carrot to a frightened mare, "if I led them instead of Voorhis? I'll make sure they behave themselves. And we can strategize together. You know the fortress, know its strengths and weaknesses. I know military tactics. I know this is not like other battles, but still…”

"Emhyr will never support that," Geralt said.

"He will." Cahir's eyes became hard. "I'll make certain of that."

Geralt thought it over. Cahir was a skilled swordsman - almost as skilled as a Witcher. Alone, he was worth a hundred Nilfgaardians. And with a few more behind him...they might stand a chance against Eredin and his Hunt. 

And with Cahir in charge, Geralt could rest a bit easier. "Fine. But I still have the final say."

Cahir nodded, a smirk stretching across his lips. "Of course. Like old times."

.

It took longer to reach the Witcher fortress than Cahir realized. He should have known better; moving two hundred mounted soldiers, as well as carts of food, steel and other supplies, took far more time than one rider. He only hoped that the battle hadn't started, that they wouldn't find Kaer Morhen beseiged, with Ciri, Geralt and their allies dead inside.

Much to Cahir's surprise, it was easy to convince Emhyr to send troops North with him in command instead of Voorhis. After Geralt left, Cahir returned to Emhyr's office, ready to explain the importance of sending soldiers to Kaer Morhen, of stopping the Wild Hunt there, not only for Ciri's sake, but for the whole world. 

“Very well,” Emhyr said almost instantly.

Cahir had started his rebuttal when Emhyr’s reply sunk in – that he _hadn’t_ refused him. “Truly?”

“After the coup on Thanedd…” the Emperor said, staring into the fireplace, hands folded neatly behind his back. The firelight made his narrow, brown eyes burn red. “After failing to capture Ciri for the second time…You chose to follow Geralt. Why? Because he killed the men that arrested you?”

Cahir shook his head. A Scoia’tel commando had captured him, believing he’d fed the Emperor false information to conceal his failure. By chance, the Witcher had set him free, not knowing that he’d saved the man that Emhyr had hired to capture Ciri in the first place, the man that had stolen her from her home, and haunted her every night when she slept. When he’d realized his mistake, Geralt hadn’t killed him. Instead he’d told him to flee, swore he would finish him off if he followed him. Cahir hadn’t cared.

“I followed Geralt because I owed him my life. We fought on Thanedd,” Cahir explained. “He bested me. He could have killed me, but he let me live. When he spared me the second time, I thought it was Destiny. I knew he would lead me to Ciri eventually. I was more than happy to help him.

“To be honest, Your Highness, it wasn’t because of my orders.” Cahir met Emhyr’s hard stare. It was no small thing, confessing to treason. “I knew my life was forfeit the moment that I failed to capture her on Thanedd. Even had I brought her back, I would have still been executed. But I knew she was in trouble. I knew Geralt meant to help her. And I wanted…”

A long moment of silence stretched between the two men.

“You love her.” The Emperor finally said. It wasn’t a question.

Cahir nodded. “More than anything else in the world.”

“You almost died for her.” Another statement.

“And I would again,” Cahir swore. A hand moved, involuntarily, to his chest, feeling the hard tissue beneath. His scars seemed to burn in response to his vow, pulling tight.

“I know what people think. I know because it is what I wish for them to think.” Emhyr’s voice became remarkably soft. “Yet, I’m not without feelings. I loved Ciri’s mother once, in my own way. And I love my wife. I know what it means to care for someone – to be prepared to risk whatever necessary to ensure her wellbeing.”

Cahir watched Emhyr’s face carefully, saw the mask of control slip every slightly when he spoke of Pavetta, Ciri’s late mother, and of his wife, a Cintran foundling the half-Elf Schirrû thought to trick Emhyr with, pretend was Ciri. They looked similar, truth be told, but Emhyr had recognized her immediately, had known she was a fraud. He could have had her executed for treason, but instead he’d let her live. No one else had known the truth back then – that the Emperor was Ciri’s long-lost father – so, for reasons of state, Emhyr married the false princess. When the truth was finally revealed, he simply stated that it was a political tactic to bring Cintra into the Empire, since the true Ciri had long vanished.

Before his marriage, Emhyr was known to bed the Empire’s most beautiful women. They were, each of them, far more beautiful than “Cirilla”; far more refined too. Cahir never imagined that Emhyr loved her, that timid little thing. Yet… The way his tone shifted when he mentioned her, the way his ordinarily sharp eyes softened…Cahir knew it well.

But the moment passed and Emhyr replaced that familiar mask of control.

“I will give you a banner to take to Kaer Morhen – the banner that I promised Geralt. The banner that _he_ rejected. Because I love Ciri. I love my child. I want what’s best for her, even if Geralt refuses to believe that.

“And… because I know how much she means to you, and what you are prepared to sacrifice to ensure her safety.” Emhyr turned from the fire, the light sending harsh shadows over the lines of his pale face. “There will be no retreats, no surrenders.”

“No, Your Eminence,” he replied. “The Wild Hunt will fall, or we will.”

Emhyr nodded. Then, “There is one other thing…”

Cahir knew that there was a condition. Emhyr was not the kind of man to offer something for nothing. “Your Imperial Majesty?”

“Ciri. Should Ciri survive the battle….Bring her to me, so that I may speak to her. Geralt refuses to hear me out, thinks I mean to harm her, or trick her in some way. But he will not refuse her if she chooses to come. Convince her that I only mean to speak to her.”

That would be no small task. Cahir first had to convince her to trust _him_ in the short time they would have together before the Hunt reached Kaer Morhen. Then he would have to ease her into the notion of trusting her father.

“Save Ciri,” Emhyr said with finality. “And bring her home.”


	3. Chapter 3

The banner led by Cahir Mawr Dyffryn followed the Pontar River East towards the Mahakam Mountains between Temeria and Aedirn, keeping south, far from the last remaining Redanian resistance. They reached the border city of Flotsam, then crossed the Pontar into Kaedwen (Cahir spent most of that time leaning over the edge of the ferry, revisiting his meals) and headed north for several more weeks. Three times, they crossed paths with loyalist scouts and engaged in skirmishes that left several Black Ones injured. Of them, only six perished, succumbing to infection.

By the first frost, the banner reached the edge of the thick forest that surrounded the Witcher fortress, the ice-capped mountains and copse of ancient pines in stark contrast to a cloudless, iron sky.

Despite what most people believed, Southern troops were exactly like Northern ones. They were more refined, more rigid in structure – that is why Emhyr had taken the Northern Realms so swiftly – but they passed the time like every man. For most of the ride, the black column of mounted soldiers thrummed with conversation. For miles, the air was electric with anticipation as older solders told of their harrowing victories on the battlefield. They were not riding as conquerors, but the bond they felt with each other, the experiences they shared, would steel their hearts in the face of the Wild Hunt.

This was not only about ensuring Ciri’s safety, Cahir reminded himself. The reason the King of the Hunt wanted her in the first place was because she could provide them with a permanent, stable entry into this world, so that they could take it themselves. This war was for human survival too – every man, woman and child on the Continent, from the Northern seas of Skellige, to the City of the Golden Towers.

As they entered the forest, the thrum reverberating through the ranks stilled, the only remaining sound the clip-clop of hooves and the hollow rattle of steel as their carts rolled over stones. Everything here was old, wild. A memory of a time long passed, when Witchers roamed the Continent, from Poviss to Korath in the East – of the magic and monsters only they were brave enough to face. Even the Brokilon Forest, with its queendom of deadly dryads and forest nymphs, never quite felt this way.

And this had once been Ciri’s home. She’d trained with these Witchers. Instead of a four-poster bed with a feather mattress she’d slept on pallets in ruins of stone and earth. Instead of reading tomes on the history of Cintra or Nilfgaard, or memorizing royal family trees, and balancing books on her head while learning which fork was which, she’d spent her life running through these trees and bathing in these icy rivers. Instead of silken gowns, she wore cotton shifts covered in stains and woolen breeches with holes in the knees. Instead of the Basse Dance or the Rufty Tufty, Ciri practiced feints, pirouettes and lethal strikes against straw-filled mannequins wearing helmets and steel.

No wonder Ciri had managed to kill Leo Bonhart.

A light, misty rain began by the time the trees started thinning. Here, the first hints of human life emerged on the valley floor: hatchets left in the trucks of felled pines, snares for rabbits half-hidden in the brush, fishing lines on the bank of the river, swaying swiftly in the current. The earth here was harder packed in places, reinforced with wooden frames and stones to make the climb into the mountains smoother.

Cahir ordered the banner to construct the camp here. He’d promised Geralt that they would keep well clear of the fortress. If they had to enter Kaer Morhen, it would be on the Witchers’ say-so.

Once the basic structure of the camp had been erected, two walls of sharpened stakes marking the inner and outer perimeters, Cahir summoned his General and two Captains: men named Elias, Leon and Luka respectively.

“Elias, come with me to Kaer Morhen,” Cahir said, climbing into his saddle, “to meet the Witchers. Geralt should have sent word of our coming. However, I’ve only ever met him. I’m not sure how the others will react to a banner of Black Ones on their very doorstep. And I’d very much prefer to keep my head on my shoulders.”

The captains, he explained, would man the camp in their absence and send soldiers to scout the land, make note of the forest’s strengths and weaknesses. He’d need to know the best spots to set traps, how many lines to set to ensure they had room to retreat safely if the Hunt pressed too hard, if there were vantage points to place sorcerers, or weak points where Eredin might have room to flank them. Others would need to cut trees for trebuchets, sharpen swords, trim feathers into fletching or boil charcoal and pine sap to make pitch.

Cahir and Elias followed the trail into the mountains, passing makeshift signs that most people would be forgiven in thinking were merely piles of broken sticks, collected over time by northern winds or pagan shrines to forgotten spirits. But Geralt had told Cahir of them, told him how to read them to reach the fortress. He studied the markers, noting which branches were longer on one side than the other, which had notches cut into the tips to point the way.

A bridge, only wide enough for one rider and a small wagon, stretched the length of the river. Similar bridges spanned the chasms higher up. Cahir could hear them creaking from below, obscured by the thickening fog. His stomach fell.

The two men rode in silence, like they were passing somberly through a tomb. Cahir scanned the cliff faces for man or beast, but could see nothing passed the end of his mount’s nose. The rain fell in earnest less than two hours later. In mere moments, Cahir’s heavy, black cloak was soaked through to its lining and his leather riding boots were filled to mid-calf with frigid water.

“Damn Northern weather,” Elias muttered behind him, falling further into the folds of his hood.

Suddenly, a bolt shot by, so close that Cahir could feel the breeze cut his cheek.

“Not one step closer, _Nilfgaardian_ ,” a voice barked from the cliffs.

His horse reared back, screaming, flailing its legs in the air, but he clenched his thighs and held on. Elias had his sword drawn in moments, but Cahir raised a hand while he struggled to calm his mount. _Hold_ , it said.

The bolt had missed on purpose. A warning.

“We come in peace,” he said, speaking slowly to conceal his Southern accent. The less like a Nilfgaardian he sounded, the likelier these Witchers would be in trusting him. “I’m a friend of Geralt of Rivia.”

“Geralt has no friends,” replied the voice with a sneer. “Besides that infuriating minstrel, Dandelion. And you aren’t colourful enough to be him.”

“My name is Cahir Mawr Dyffryn. I’ve known Geralt since the Second Northern War. I was a member of the White Wolf’s _hansa_ – I mean...company,” he corrected. “ _Hansa_ ” was a Southern term.

“Geralt’s company perished,” countered the Witcher. “You bear the name of a corpse.”

Cahir felt Elias’ eyes on him, seeking an explanation for the Witcher’s claims. None would be forthcoming. Not now. Not once they returned to camp. Cahir had told no one – save the Emperor - of what had happened back then.

“I stand a man of blood and bone. Come – hear my heartbeat, if it please you.”

A snort. “I’d much rather put this bolt between your eyes.”

Cahir pressed his lips together. Were all Witchers so stubborn? “As I said, I’m not here to fight. Geralt sent for me – for the Emperor’s help.”

“Why would Geralt need the Emperor’s help?”

Did this Witcher know nothing of Geralt’s plans? Or was he testing them?

Either way, Cahir saw no harm in revealing his intentions. Whether Geralt had told him or not, this man was known to Ciri too. Perhaps they were even friends, if she’d trained with him – though Cahir had no way of knowing if Witchers considered each other friends or merely necessary partners.

“Because of Ciri. She’s in trouble. For months she’s been pursued by the Wild Hunt,” he said. “Geralt plans to lure them here, to Kaer Morhen, to kill them if possible. He requested the Empire’s help in this matter. Two hundred Nilfgaardian soldiers wait in the valley below for Geralt’s orders. Has he returned?”

The Witcher, content, perhaps, with Cahir’s response, revealed himself on the cliffs overhead, a crossbow expertly trained on the two Imperial soldiers. Cahir had only ever met one Witcher. He’d known of the contract between Emhyr and Letho, but had never the chance to meet with him. He pictured someone similar to Geralt, in size, stature and even looks. He was surprised then that this man – whoever he was – looked nothing like his old friend, other than having those same, strange, cat-like eyes. Instead, this Witcher was younger and had brown hair, not white, shorn short, with faint stubble on his hollow cheeks.

“Geralt hasn’t returned, but he mentioned he was calling in some favours. Not sure why he thought he needed Emhyr’s help though.” The Witcher scowled. “Whatever. You can follow me. _He_ stays here though.” He thrust his chin towards Elias.

“He is my Second,” Cahir said tersely.

“You can either come with me – without him – or return to your men together.”

Cahir sighed. “Very well.”

Elias’ eyes widened. “But My Lord…!”

“Return to camp,” Cahir said. “I’m sure even Witchers know the rules of hospitality. Now that I’ve proven I’m their friend - ” The Witcher hiccoughed. “ – I’m sure that I will be fine.”

Elias shot the Witcher a threatening glance: _If anything happens to him…_

Somehow, Cahir knew that the Witcher wouldn’t care. If this man was as stubborn as Geralt – or more so – than the threat of a few hundred Nilfgaardians wouldn’t be enough to stay his hand if he meant Cahir harm.

After a long, silent standoff, Elias relented, saluting Cahir with a fist pressed to his chest. The Witcher stood there, keeping the crossbow honed in on Cahir. Long minutes passed, the Black Knight and the Witcher never taking their eyes off each other. Cahir started to wonder if the Witcher meant to kill him after all, but then, when it was obvious that Elias would not return to follow them, the Witcher lowered the weapon.

“Follow me then.”

Despite its ruin, Kaer Morhen was an impressive sight when it rose from the mist. The Witcher fortress was built into the face of the mountains so that it looked more a part of nature than of something built by man. Cahir could imagine what it must have looked like when it was in its prime: the clash and clatter of steel on steel as craftsman plied their trade, the flash of banners flapping in the wind, bearing their mighty sigils, the lull of conversation, laughter and song. He imagined the way it must have smelled: the contrast of fresh mountain snow and pine with burning iron, horse manure, sweat and wet hounds in their kennels. Of bread fresh from the kitchen ovens, roasting boar and boiling leather.

“Hey!” the Witcher snapped.

Cahir startled, realizing that he’d nodded off. “What?”

“What’re you doing?”

“What?” he repeated, not sure what had vexed the Witcher so. They hadn’t spoken much since Cahir told Elias to return to camp. “I’m following you.”

“No, you are staring at Kaer Morhen. What? Are you checking out our weaknesses? Plotting the best way of breaching our walls?”

“I wasn’t – but to be honest, it would be important to know,” he replied. “To plan the castle’s defense, I mean.” He offered the Witcher a small smirk. “My, you’re a bit paranoid, aren’t you?”

“I’m just sensible,” said the Witcher. “Do many people trust Nilfgaardians?”

“No, that’s true,” Cahir relented with a shrug. “I’m not Nilgaardian though.”

“No? You certainly sound like one. Certainly _look_ like one too.”

“I’m from Vicovaro.”

“And…that’s…?”

“An Imperial province,” he said.

“So…You _are_ Nilfgaardian, then.”

“I’m not. I’m…never mind.” Witchers couldn’t possibly comprehend how important a man’s homeland was. Other than their Schools, they had no place to call home, nothing to keep them rooted to one place. “What’s your problem though? Geralt trusts me.”

“Well, Geralt has shit taste,” the Witcher replied. “He trusts sorceresses too. I wouldn’t consider his recommendation something special.”

“You can rest easy,” he said. “I’m not here to invade Kaer Morhen, I swear. Besides, even if the Emperor was planning to take this fortress, one look and he would reconsider. There’s nothing of value for miles. What? Crumbling stones and rusty steel? No. Your little school is safe.”

They entered the fortress through a massive, unmanned gatehouse with an ironworks portcullis built into the western corner of the curtain wall, passing over another bridge. His skin rippled with fear when he noticed that the ravine was filled with bones - _human_ bones, rubbed smooth by time and violent winds. Ignoring the horrid sepulcher, Cahir dismounted and led his horse over the threshold by the reins, thankful for the immediate warmth and dryness of the castle’s interior.

“Lambert! Who’s that you have with you?” an elderly man asked, coming in from the other side, covered head to toe in manure and mud. Another Witcher, Cahir realized, watching his eyes shift in the low torchlight, becoming narrow slits.

“A Nilfgaardian,” the Witcher called Lambert said. “Claims he’s a friend of Geralt’s.”

“Hm…Geralt hasn’t got many friends,” the old Witcher said, stroking the fine, white hairs on his chin with his thumb. “Other than Dandelion, I mean.”

“That’s what I said,” Lambert said with a chuckle. “Maybe he’s one of Geralt’s lovers. He’s pretty enough.”

“I’m Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach, Count of _Vicavaro_ ,” Cahir said, side-stepping Lambert’s lewd remark.

“A lofty title. And you say you are a friend of Geralt’s?”

“Yes. I’ve known the Witcher since the Second Northern War. Along with a barber surgeon named Regis, a half-dryad woman from the Brokilon Forest, Milva, and - “

“Cahir! Melitele’s tits! Is that really you?!”

The three men turned and looked up, up, _up_ , at Dandelion, the famed poet and troubadour, on one of the Keep's many balconies, waving his silk hat with its long peacock feather like a fair maiden bidding her lover farewell.

“Dandelion, you idiot! Stop that before you fall!” the elderly Witcher hollered.

“Nonsense Vesemir.” Dandelion scoffed and immediately slipped on the rain-slick stones, bashing his chin on the balustrade with an audible _crack_! “Ow…”

_Classic Dandelion_ , Cahir thought with a chuckle.

Dandelion picked himself up off the floor, rubbing his chin with his palm and checking for loose teeth and blood. He vanished inside the Keep, re-emerging a few minutes later to join them in the courtyard. He threw his puffy-sleeved arms around Cahir’s shoulder and squeezed the Black Knight tightly. The feather sticking out the top of his hat tickled Cahir’s nose and he sneezed three times before finally stepping back.

In typical Dandelion fashion, the troubadour wore a flashily patterned tunic of purple silk beneath a blue jerkin lined in whorls of paisley in silver, and matching stripped trousers. Around his neck he wore a lacy cravat pinned with an amethyst broach cut into the shape of a siren. Instead of boots, he sported a pair of thin, blue hose, with ribbons running the length of each leg, and silk slippers. No wonder he’d slipped on the rain-slick stones.

Dandelion held Cahir’s face in both callused, heavily ringed hands, his cornflower eyes softening. He never thought he’d see the Nilfgaardian noble again. “Geralt said you died.”

Cahir covered Dandelion’s hands with his own. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the colourful fool, or how thankful he was that he’d stayed behind in Beauclair instead of coming to Stygaa Castle. Dandelion had become like a brother to him – an annoying brother, but a brother nevertheless. “He thought I was. He thought we all were.”

“I wrote a ballad about you,” Dandelion said. “ _The Black Knight from Nilfgaard_. Women, in particular, love that one.”

“Then, I should like to hear it sometime – even though I’m not Nilgaardian.” Cahir laughed, embracing him properly.

Clearing his throat, Lambert said, “Can we continue this family reunion inside, maybe?”

Dandelion swiped a tear from the corner of his eye with a flourish. “Well. Yes. I should think so. That would be best. It’s freezing out here. Plus, I’m starving and I think I smelled something cooking in the kitchen.”

“That would be the boar Eskel caught this morning,” Vesemir said, taking the lead. “Will you join us for supper - Cahir, was it?”

Cahir hadn’t realized how hungry he was before, but the moment Vesemir mentioned supper, his stomach burbled eagerly. “Yes. And I would be honoured, Master Witcher.”

Kaer Morhen was a welcomed break from the long march and heavy rain. Despite the crumbling exterior, most of the interior rooms seemed well-maintained. There were few of the conveniences one would expect to find in such a residence. Chandeliers covered in tallow candles, enormous stone hearths and ironworks sconces kept the large rooms lit, revealing walls covered in faded murals from times long passed. Certainly, these were not painted by the Witchers, but rather the former inhabitants – whoever they were. Bearskins, carpets, curtains and the occasional painting (likely offerings from poorer townsfolk who could not pay with coin) insulated the fortress from the cold.

Of furniture, there were benches, plain tables – lacking the complex ornamentation common on Nilfgaardian tables – and chairs of the most rudimentary shapes and colours. Shelves of leather-bound tomes and bottles containing variously coloured liquids lined the walls, with racks of weaponry and rusted suits of armour between them.

Like the forests outside, there was an ancientness to Kaer Morhen that felt so foreign to Cahir compared to the comfortable modernity of the Empire.

Cahir knew now why Geralt was the way he was. He was born into this ancient, wild world: hammered, shaped and sharpened by it.

For the better or for worse.


	4. Chapter 4

Three sorceresses were conversing with a pair of comely women in the kitchen while Eskel, the last of the Witchers of the School of the Wolf, hovered over the hearth, seasoning the boar cooking over the fire. Like Lambert, Eskel looked nothing like Geralt. Other than the hideous scars marring the right half of his face, he had softer features than the other Witchers, and a kinder temperament. But Cahir knew better than to underestimate him. Witchers were Witchers and Cahir was not stupid enough to believe that Eskel would hesitate to cleave his head in two.

Of the three sorceresses, Cahir only recognized Yennefer of Vengerberg. Like most sane men, sorceresses troubled him. They were far too powerful to be trusted, especially here in the North where it was said that _they_ ruled the kings, whispering honeyed words in their ears, rather than being ruled by them. Cahir preferred to keep well away from any matters involving them. He’d only reached out to Yennefer because of her relationship with Ciri. She was conniving, powerful and proud to a fault. He never could see what Geralt saw in the witch – other than her obvious beauty. But in nature, the beautiful fish, flowers and even frogs were often the most poisonous.

Cahir’s heart skipped a beat, his stare falling on the pair seated beside the sorceresses on the bench, their brown, cotton trousers, matching tunics and filthy hunting leathers a stark contrast to Yennefer and her sisters’ elegant gowns. He hadn’t seen Angoulême or Milva since his trial.

Angoulême felt his stare first, her face lighting with recognition. She leapt off the bench, running towards him so fast he barely had the time to catch her before she crashed into his steel chest, knocking the breath from his lungs. “Cahir!”

“Flaxenhair,” he replied, brushing loose strands behind her ear. She was no longer the boisterous child he’d once traveled with; she was a woman. A pretty woman, he thought, a braid of fair hair coiled round her head like a crown and hazel eyes that brimmed with happy tears. She stood a head shorter than him on her toes, and had the full, muscled body of a Dryad warrior like Milva. She was always skilled with a blade, but now he suspected she was as lethal with a blade _and_ bow as lions were with claws and teeth.

“I see that leg of yours has healed,” he said.

“I see that face of yours hasn’t.”

“Ouch!” Cahir smacked her cheek softly, then clasped her chin, smushing her round cheeks together, and planted a feather-light kiss on her lips. “You are such a horrible little sister. But I love you anyways.”

Milva rose with far more elegance, her movements smooth and ethereal, characteristic of the women of the forest. Images of Stygga Castle suddenly flashed in the back of Cahir’s mind – of Milva on her knees. Her normally shining, sunshine hair hanging in loose, oily strands while blood rolled out the corner of her mouth. A colourful fletching protruding between her breasts.

“Milva…” He held her tightly, breathing in the fresh scent of pine that clung to her leathers. Even in this cold, damp, foreign place, so far from the elegant tongue of the Empire, the familiar foods or the lofty palaces of the Capital, far from his parents and siblings, he felt like somehow…he was home.

"I’m happy to see you, Cahir,” Milva said, her lips brushing his cheek. “You look well.”

“You spoke with Geralt too, I imagine?”

She shook her head. “Not personally. Geralt has not been to Brokolin since the Second War. Dandelion sent word. Said that Geralt was planning something big here at Kaer Morhen. We were more than happy to help however we can.”

Once it was cooked thoroughly, Eskel placed the boar on a large, pewter tray covered in root vegetables and brought it to the long table in the center of the kitchen. Like everything in Kaer Morhen, the boar was crude. The pig was cooked to a crispy, reddish brown colour, and smelled of spicy herbs. It sat overtop some boiled carrots, onions and a single potato sliced into irregular pieces. The three fair sorceresses, habituated to far finer presentation, scrunched their little noses in repulsion, but nevertheless cut for themselves a couple crispy slices and a cube of potato.

“So, what happens now?” Cahir wondered, helping himself to a carrot and a thick cut of meat. There wasn’t much tableware to be had so he was forced to eat with his hands, pulling the flakes of ham off the bone. Fat ran in rivulets between his fingers.

“Geralt hasn’t returned,” said Yennefer from her side of the bench. “But we needn’t wait for him. We can make our own preparations in the morning. There’s much to make ready. And I can’t rightly say how much time we will have once the Hunt tracks Ciri here.”

There was a palpable tension in the kitchen when Yennefer spoke. The sorceress was Geralt’s lover. She was intelligent, powerful and strong-willed, but Kaer Morhen was still the Witchers’ home. They were clearly not fond of the fact that she spoke like she was in command. None of them, however, were eager to contradict her.

The Witchers, he learned, were a silent bunch, content to eat without banter. Perhaps they were hesitant to say too much with him present, or perhaps there wasn’t much _to_ say. Though Dandelion more than made up for it with endless stories about Geralt and everything that had happened in the North since the war. He spoke of the Zerrikanian, Azar Javed and Salamandra, and of how Geralt slew the wicked Grand Master Jacques de Aldersberg in Old Vizima. He spoke of the assassinations of Demavend and Foltest by Letho, the Witcher of the School of the Viper, and Iorveth of the Socia'tael. When Dandelion reached the revelation that it was the Emperor who'd hired the Witcher, everyone glanced at Cahir, listening silently from his spot on the bench. He shrugged, wiping crumbs from the corners of his mouth with his thumb. He'd not been privy to Emhyr's plans regarding the North, though he saw little reason to try and explain himself. If they believed he was involved, protesting would make them more suspicious.

Cahir returned to camp shortly before midnight. He was pleased to find the pavilions and tents erected in perfectly straight lines, organized by military rank, the perimeter secure, and several projects taking shape. Summoning Elias and the two captains, Leon and Luka, Cahir explained what he’d seen of the fortress.

His marquee was a spacious tent furnished with a bed covered in furs, wooden busts for his plate, chairs, chests for his things, banners bearing the Great Sun, a bathtub, braziers filled with coals for warmth, and a long, oak war table. They had only the crudest maps of Kaer Morhen and the forest surrounding the fortress, sketched from Geralt’s report before he’d left Vizima, but Cahir noted the points where he remembered seeing holes or spots where he thought the walls looked weakest with black flags.

“I noticed several breaches in the fortress’ outer curtain walls,” he said. “Geralt of Rivia has not returned but I’ve spoken with the Witcher named Vesemir. He is the most senior of them and he is permitting some of our men within Kaer Morhen to repair the walls – here, here and here - and clear out the armoury here. Leon. Luka. I will need the names of twenty of our strongest men no later than by sunup tomorrow.

“Elias. Lady Yennefer has told me that a fleet of Skelligers is expected to reach the valley, by land, within a fortnight, led by their new ruler, Hjalmar an Craite. I will speak with him myself once they arrive, but Skelligers are horribly temperamental and I suspect he will not take kindly to our being here. However, the Emperor’s war is separate from this battle. In this we are allies, Islanders and Southerners both. I need reassurances that we will _not_ provoke Craite’s men, nor engage them if they try and pick a fight.”

“I will see to it, My Lord,” Elias insisted with a salute.

Cahir dismissed his men with his own salute and began to methodically remove his plate, starting with his vambraces. It was a familiar and strangely comforting process, loosening the belts, buckles and ties holding the pieces together, pulling them from his sweaty limbs – that momentary pinch wherever metal pressed right to his skin – and carefully setting them on one of the wooden busts to be cleaned and polished.

He sat on the edge of the bed’s firm mattress to remove his cuisse and greaves and almost cried out in relief as he pulled off his riding boots. His feet were excruciatingly sore and his toes were wrinkled from soaking in rainwater for hours.

A squire entered with a kettle of boiling water for his tub. It took several trips, but eventually, the tub was full. Stripping off his shirt and trousers, Cahir climbed into the tub, his muscles relaxing in moments. He rubbed himself with a bar of scented soap, washing off the twigs and leaves and seeds that he’d somehow collected over the course of the march. Mud flaked off his skin, staining the clear water brown.

Once he was clean, he leaned back, his neck resting on the edge of the tub, and closed his eyes, letting the warm water cocoon him, the faint lull rock him into a half-sleep.

He saw Geralt, sitting on the edge of a bed in a cottage with no windows. Everything in the cottage, save the earthenware mugs, was made smaller than normal. This, he realized, was a Dwarven home. None of the Dwarven occupants were home, though there was clear evidence of their being there in the clothes haphazardly strewn on the floor, the fire flickering in the hearth, the empty flagons, plates and apple cores littering the beer-stained tables.

Geralt wasn’t alone either. There was a woman on the bed behind him, her knees awkwardly bent to fit into the tiny bed frame, her skin the colour of a corpse. Her limbs hung loosely by her side, like they’d fallen there rather than having tucked themselves where it was comfortable. Her eyes, smeared with black kohl, were half-open, having rolled back in her head so that only the whites peeked through her lashes.

Geralt’s shoulders were curled inwards, trembling, his silver head low and buried in his hands. Cahir had never seen the Witcher cry – he wasn’t sure that it was even possible – but the expression on the White Wolf’s face was close enough. His heart was broken, shattered into millions of pieces.

That was Ciri, he realized. No. She couldn’t…

Geralt turned and pulled Ciri into his lap, held her tightly to his chest like a father holding his newborn babe, rocking her softly while he wept a tearless weep.

A light floated into the cottage like a pale firefly from somewhere outside, settling over them like moonlight. Ciri’s face suddenly flushed with colour, her emerald eyes opening slowly, and her hands rose to Geralt’s shoulders, feeling the familiar strength and comforting warmth of the Witcher’s arms around her. After all this time, Geralt had finally found her. Like before. He’d found her. She knew that he would…

“Ciri!”

Cahir thrashed in the tub, twitching like someone had poked him in the back with a hot iron, and threw water onto the carpets.

“My Lord!” The men standing watch outside rushed in, their hands on their blades.

“I’m fine. I’m fine,” he said. He reached for a towel. “I nodded off and had a nightmare.”

The men relaxed as Cahir rose from the tub, before their eyes fell on the long, ragged scar that ran the length of his torso from his shoulder to his navel. The Black Knight bore few other scars - it was hard to scar what you couldn't hit - so Bonhart’s memento was hard to miss.

“That will be everything,” Cahir said, feeling their eyes on him. “Good night, Soldier.”

“Good night!" said the men, shaking off their surprise. They returned to their posts silently, but Cahir suspected they would be whispering about it once they thought he was asleep, pondering how their esteemed leader had received such brutal scars. Let them wonder, he thought. It would benefit his reputation to have rumours circulate that he’d once fought off a bear or a manticore or whatever beast they could imagine had wounded him so.

Throwing on some clothes, he called for his squire to remove the tub and bring him some spiced wine. 

He was liberal with the wine, more so than he normally would be. But his hands were still trembling from the vision.

_Ciri…_

She looked much older than he remembered, and not only because four years had passed since they’d last seen each other in the bloody halls of Stygga Castle. A life of constant struggle, of running world to world, never truly knowing respite, had left her scarred.

Cahir only ever had visions when Ciri was in trouble, or shortly before. A trait he seemed to share with Geralt. Geralt, however, was bound to her through Destiny. His Child Surprise. It made sense that _he_ would have visions. It made sense that he would know when she was in trouble. But why Cahir?

“I once thought I was bound to her too,” he said the following morning.

He was clearing rubble from Kaer Morhen’s walls with his men, taking the old stones out to be replaced with more solid ones. There weren’t exactly mines nearby to chisel out new stones, and carving out the mountains would take too long, require too many men. So instead, the rubble would be made into mortar to bind new, solid rocks scavenged from the woods, rocks that had rolled off the mountains themselves. Timber parapets would reinforce the walls, especially the newly renovated sections against magic and projectiles.

Cahir had the brief concern that this work might possibly be for naught, if the Wild Hunt managed to find some way of teleporting into the fortress itself. Avallac'h, the Elven sage that had helped Ciri these many months, explained that an Aen Elle named Caranthir was the Wild Hunt's navigator. While not powerful enough to move their entire race (that's why Eredin needed Ciri in the first place), he manipulated the portals that the Red Riders required to cross worlds. Rebuilding the walls would mean nothing if this Caranthir managed to teleport them inside the walls rather than outside them.

Milva sat nearby, perched on top of some barrels, cutting feathers into fletching.

“You are bound to her,” she replied simply, splitting a feather in half. She held one half in her teeth, measuring out the other with her thumb. “Everything has been for her, hasn’t it? Cintra. Thanedd…” _And Stygga_. The words hung ominously between them, though neither of them was eager to remember that night.

“Those weren’t exactly the most noble of feats,” he replied, hoisting the next stone. “Everyone says that I saved her in Cintra. From what? She was being taken from the city, escorted by Calanthe’s knights. I killed them and captured her for myself – for the Emperor. Had I left her...perhaps they would have taken her to Crach an Craite. Perhaps she would have returned to Cintra to take the throne back. Perhaps she would have placated the Emperor, her _father_ , ruling the North peacefully, instead of being passed party to party while Nilfgaard ravaged the Continent.

“Perhaps none of the shitty things she was subjected to ever would have happened if not for me.” He heaved the crumbling stone onto the back of the waiting cart to be taken into the valley and crushed into concrete.

Milva shrugged. “Perhaps. Or perhaps they would have happened regardless, only she would’ve been captured by Nilfgaardians or Scoia’tael or rogue Northern soldiers. Perhaps she would have simply been raped first. No one knows what ‘could have been’, Cahir. It benefits no one to consider it.

“Regardless of what befell her, the fact remains that _you_ carried her from the burning city, brought her to where she was meant to be, put her on the path to find Geralt.”

He pushed a curl from his sweaty forehead, leaving a black streak behind. “I thought I loved her.”

In his mind’s eye he could see her laying there in the cottage, stuffed onto the tiny bed. He’d seen the sketches the Emperor’s spies had made. He’d seen the beautiful woman Ciri had become – though he’d thought her lovely even when she was a child, covered head to toe in sooty tatters. But seeing her laying in the bed…He realized what a stranger she was.

“I only spent a few hours with her the night that Cintra fell. I said nothing to her other than ‘Hold on.’” He remembered the heat. Pulsating heat like he’d never known. The thick muscle of his stallion beneath him, straining to escape the flames. The trembling of the little princess pressed tightly to his chest. _Hold on!_ he’d screamed over the crackling flames, over the clash of steel on steel, over the hammering of his horse’s hooves on the cobblestones. _Hold on, Lion Cub!_

“When I tried speaking to her the next time…I was exhausted. I couldn’t remember the Common Tongue. And she hadn’t learned Nilfgaardian.” He’d told her this story when first they’d met. Milva knew that that night, while he slept, Ciri fled into the nearby woods. By the time Cahir realized what had happened, there was no trace of the Cintran princess to be found.

Years later, they met once more on the Isle of Thanedd. Ciri fought him, no longer the frightened little thing he remembered. She’d bested him – one of the few people who ever had. Nearly cut his hand off too. He never knew why she’d spared him, nor why Geralt had himself later on.

_Destiny…_

Cahir cleaned his hands in his trousers. “By the time I finally found her – by the time _we_ finally found her…Her face was horribly scarred. She was bloodied, bruised and filthy. But I recognized her immediately. My princess. She knew who I was immediately too. At first, I think Ciri fully intended to kill me. But when Bonhart found her it was like something changed. She begged me not to fight him. Me, the man she had hated for so long. She begged me to flee.

“How could I flee? I’d searched for her for so long. Running would make me a coward. And how could she ever love me then?”

He laughed softly and Milva lowered the fletching she’d been trimming.

“How many times had I sacrificed everything for her? Too many to count. Emhyr nearly killed me for treason…three times. Geralt nearly killed me twice – perhaps he would have succeeded had you not vouched for me. I’ve lost the function of three fingers, had my skull split open, and was cleaved near in two.

“And for what? I thought I loved Ciri,” he said again. “But last night I realized that I barely even know her. I love someone I’ve only spoken to twice. How foolish is that?”

“It’s not foolish,” the Dryad said. “But…perhaps it’s not _her_ that you fell in love with.”

Cahir cast her a confused look.

“Perhaps it was merely the idea of her. Of two hearts being bound together by Destiny, like in the ballads Dandelion sings. The Black Knight and his Cintran Princess.”

Cahir shrugged. Maybe she was right.

“So what now, then?”

“Now…You speak to her. Get to know the true Ciri – not the Ciri you invented. She may very well be everything you imagined. Or she may not. If that’s the case…Don’t fight for her. Fight for me. Fight for Angoulême. Fight for Dandelion, for Vicovaro – for your father and mother and sisters. Fight for Emhyr if need be.

“And fight for Geralt,” Milva said. “Because even if Ciri is not the person you fell in love with, _Geralt_ is.”

Cahir continued hauling rocks and Milva continued making fletchings silently. Clouds moved overhead, briefly casting the forest in shadow. The weather had remained significantly more pleasant than yesterday. There was a constant chill, common of the mountains this time of the year. But hours of hard labour had the tendency to make men’s blood warm and skin slick with stale sweat.

He knew Milva was right; she was always right. He owed Geralt his life three times over, though the Witcher would certainly say that Cahir saved his life too and owed him nothing. 

Still, they were brothers. Even if Ciri wasn't what he imagined - even if she wanted nothing of him, not even his pleas for forgiveness - he would fight for her because Geralt loved her like his own. 

He wandered over to a barrel filled with fresh rainwater and filled his cupped hands. He took a long draught, the water cool in his parched throat, and drew a second handful to wash his sunburnt face when a sudden bang – like a peal of thunder – echoed off Kaer Morhen’s high towers.

“Is that…” Milva started.

The Wild Hunt! They’d beaten Geralt and Ciri here.

Cahir ran for his sword, which he’d left nearby with his plate and followed Milva into the courtyard, his heart racing.

But it wasn’t the Wild Hunt. It was Geralt of Rivia, his scarred skin like spoiled milk. The Witcher leaned over, hands on his knees, looking ready to vomit. And standing by his side…

Cahir’s mouth fell open. “Ciri…”


	5. Chapter 5

Ciri stood beside the open window high in Kaer Morhen’s stone towers, breathing in the familiar sights, sounds and smells of the Witcher fortress.

 _Home…_ It had taken five years and she’d crossed countless worlds, but she was finally home.

She was surprised to find that her old bedroom remained intact, not that the Witchers had provided her with many personal belongings. This wasn’t Cintra, or Ellander, where her room was filled with a four-poster bed with heavy, patterned curtains to block out the harsh sunlight, or shelves of old books, carved chests of clothes and shoes, flowers sitting in painted vases or ornamental plates and banners hanging on the walls.

This was Kaer Morhen. She slept on a hard pallet covered in smelly, tattered furs in the middle of a large, mostly empty room. There were four splintered bookshelves containing nothing but brittle scrolls and a massive tome on the characteristics of monsters that she spent many mornings pouring over beneath Uncle Vesemir’s watchful eye. Simply reading the peeling print on the book’s spine made her head hurt. There was a bust for her harness and a chest where Ciri had once kept the tunic the Witchers had made for her, patched together from parts of other tunics. There had never been female Witchers, so there was nothing that fit the former princess, nor seamstresses to sew something new.

She’d looked terrible, she thought, but she had never minded then. Calanthe was beautiful. Her mother, Pavetta, was beautiful – not that Ciri remembered her well – but Ciri never thought of herself like that when she was a child. She hadn’t minded that her silver hair was cut haphazardly, or that her pale forehead looked enormous thanks to her short, short bangs, or that she was always filthy and smelled of onions.

It was after Ciri met Triss and, later, Yennefer and other sorceresses that she started to compare herself to fancy women and felt the inclination to be prettier: to have thick, curled hair hanging over her shoulders, to wear colourful costumes embroidered in silk tread, with buttons made of silver and inset with emeralds and rubies and sapphires, to smell of sweet perfumes.

There’d been no time for such luxuries while fleeing from the Hunt. The closest she’d come was when she’d met Sir Galahad, the beautiful knight of Camelot. Time had lost most of its meaning; she couldn’t rightly say how long she’d spent traveling with him, searching for some cup he thought was magical. The Holy Grail he’d called it. Said it was once the cup of some Prophet. She hadn’t really cared, truth be told. But he was beautiful – with hair kissed by fire, striking blue eyes (Ciri liked blue eyes), and a tender smile that always made her heart flutter like a hive of excited wasps – kind, and skilled with a blade. They’d had many adventures and Ciri had taken a fancy to him.

She thought he would be like Kayleigh or Mistle, and force himself on her in the night. She wouldn’t have minded; she had _hoped_ he might sleep beside her, perhaps slip beneath her blankets, claiming they needed to be closer for warmth, and eventually start to touch her, moving his rough, calloused hands over her skin. She would have let him. She wanted to touch him too, and finally know what it was like to lay with a man. But Galahad never even tried.

Later, she’d learned that it was because of his knightly vows and Christian virtue. “A righteous man _never_ forces himself on a fair maiden,” he’d stated, his neck so flushed that it matched his mop of red curls. “Or…she need not be fair, even. Even if she was a blighted hag swathed in putrid rags, with broken teeth and hairy warts.”

Ciri had laughed when he’d said that, laughed so hard she started to cry and clutch her belly. She’d fallen off the log she was balanced on, which caused her to laugh more.

 _Not so funny when such women are real though_ , she thought, recalling the horrid Ladies of the Wood.

“You’re a fair maiden, Ciri,” he’d continued, once her laughter settled. “And I’d never dishonour you that way… I love you.”

Any remaining chuckles had ceased then. “You…?” Had she heard him right? He _loved_ her?

No one besides Geralt and Yennefer had ever said that to her. Not even Grandmother, though she supposedly cared for Ciri fiercely.

Ciri thought she would blush like a novice when he said that, like she blushed every time he smiled. But instead she’d started to cry. Galahad had thought she was laughing once more before he noticed her tears.

“Ciri! Oh, Ciri!” He’d knelt before her. “Forgive me! I never should have said that. I only meant to say that you are dear to me. Please, please stop crying. I never meant to depress you.”

“Depress me? Galahad…I’m not sad. I’m the exact opposite. No one…” She’d wiped her nose in the back of her other hand, leaving an embarrassingly long smear of snot behind. “No one has ever told me that they love me.”

“No one?” His handsome face pinched with confusion, then twisted into severe sincerity. “Then they are blind fools.”

He’d kissed her then, cupping her scarred cheek, pressing his lips to hers softly. Ciri remembered how warm they were against hers. And bitterly sweet from the berries they’d eaten for their supper that evening. His kiss was delicate and tender and he’d pulled back moments later, searching her still-wet eyes for consent to continue. She’d silently replied with a kiss of her own, her mouth crashing into his. They’d tumbled into the mossy undergrowth, but when Ciri started tugging on the ties and clasps of his suddenly rather tight breeches, he’d stopped her.

Not like this, he’d explained. Not outside. Their first time together needed to be proper, fit for a fair maiden.

So the following morning they’d followed the road south to a lakeside town. The high lord there recognized the pin fastened to Galahad’s left pauldron - a small white rose set in the center of a larger red rose – as belonging to King Arthur’s Knights. He wasn’t familiar with Galahad’s shield, but Knights of the Round Table were never refused food or shelter. And when he’d learned that Galahad’s father was Lancelot, the King’s most beloved friend, the high lord’s hospitality increased tenfold. They were offered the finest rooms in the keep, supped on plates of steaming beef stew with carrots and mushrooms, crispy pork sausage, barley bread fresh from the kitchens, small fig pies basted in honey, and cups of savory red wine. As they ate, colourful musicians sang songs about courtly love and brave knights slaying ancient beasts, and fools in blue, purple and red motley tunics and coxcomb hats with bells on the end made merry, skipping between the tables telling silly stories and crude limericks to elicit laughter and smiles.

After bidding the high lord a good night and retiring for the evening, Galahad snuck into Ciri’s room. They took their time, first sitting together on the edge of the bed, holding hands, kissing in short bursts that left them both breathless. Ciri, trembling with excited nervousness, pulled on the front of Galahad’s nightshirt, loosening the cotton laces. He’d shrugged the nightshirt off, revealing a chest corded with hard muscles beneath pale skin. His neck and shoulders were sprinkled with brown freckles like a robin’s egg and beneath his navel were fine hairs the same shade of red as atop his head.

She’d shed her shift as well, and even though Galahad had seen her naked before – he’d met her while she was bathing – he beheld her with a kind of reverence that made the former princess flush with embarrassment, once more on the verge of tears. He’d really thought she was beautiful, even with her horribly scarred face, her barely-there breasts and muscled thighs that were so very mannish. Not like Triss or Yennefer or the other sorceresses, who had such curvy, feminine figures.

Still, they hadn’t rushed the moment. They’d climbed into bed, beneath the bear-skin blankets where it was pleasantly warm, and held each other, savoring the feeling of each other’s naked skin beneath their fingertips. Galahad kissed Ciri’s lips and neck and shoulders, lingering whenever he heard her sigh, felt her body shudder in response.

When he’d moved between her legs, he was noticeably trembling. He’d never been with a woman himself – his confession shocked Ciri, who had never heard of a man with Galahad’s looks or skills being inexperienced in such things.

But Ciri simply smiled and brushed a stray curl from his forehead. She kissed him sweetly and pressed her knees into the knight’s sides, silently begging for more.

He obliged, entering her slowly and pausing more than once to make sure he wasn’t causing her pain. Only when Ciri, her fingers pressing hard into his shoulders, insisted she was okay would he continue. His initial thrusts were clumsy, hasty and rough and completely lacking the elegance he showed in other pursuits. But Ciri hadn’t minded. She’d stopped him with a hand on his chest, the other wrapped around his neck.

“Slower…” she’d whispered and moved her hips to guide him. “Mhm…Like that…”

He fell into a proper rhythm, reacting to her moans and sighs of pleasure. The feeling of their bodies moving together was more than Ciri could have imagined. It wasn’t like with Mistle, when she was as equally excited as repulsed by her touch, when she’d told herself in her moments of reluctance that it was love simply because everything else seemed far worse.

Galahad loved Ciri for Ciri, not for her powers or her titles. He wanted nothing of her, save her happiness.

Afterwards, he’d held her close and swore he’d make her his lady. He would build her a castle, he’d said, wherever she wanted. A home for them to return to whenever they tired of the road. She’d liked that. A home…She knew she would’ve been happy with him, riding beneath icy mountains, or over rolling hills of snow, through fields of coloured flowers, in rain and blazing heat, humid marshes, and cold, misty woods.

But of course, like so many things in Ciri’s life, the happiness she’d found with Galahad was so swiftly taken from her.

“Ciri! Run!” Galahad had screamed over the icy wind.

Eredin and his Red Riders had finally found her. She could still hear the hammering of their horses on the country road, crushing everything in their path. She could still hear the hiss of Elven steel as Eredin raised his sword. Galahad’s own sword cracked, shattered like crystal into a million pieces when he’d met the King of the Wild Hunt’s magic blade. Eredin hit him in the face with his pommel, caving in the front of Galahad’s helm and sending him sprawling into the frosted mud.

“Hm…Yes,” Eredin mused, kicking off Galahad’s helm, seizing him by his fiery hair. His face was covered in blood from his nose, shining black in the moonlight. “Run, little _Zireael_. A chase makes the prize that much sweeter.”

“Galahad!” Ciri had reached for her own sword, but the knight shook his head. _No…You cannot face him. Not now._

“Ciri…” Galahad smiled through his tears, even when Eredin shoved him to his knees. “You are beautiful and brave and strong. And I love you.”

Ciri screamed when Eredin hewed his head off in one, swift blow. But Galahad’s words echoed in her head. _Run!_

And so, Ciri ran.

.

“What’s wrong?” Yennefer asked suddenly, summoning water and filling a copper tub. “You look miserable.”

“Do I?” Ciri forced herself to smile, then remembered that the sorceress was smarter than that. If it pleased her, she could read Ciri’s thoughts like reading a book. “It’s nothing…Really. Bad memories. And… a few fond ones.”

Yennefer laughed softly, knowing only too well what Ciri meant. “Was he pretty?” If memory served, Ciri seemed particularly taken by the handsome ones. She was curious, of course, of other boys like that novice scribe from the Temple when she was a child, or those hairy Skelligers. But it was base curiosity and when she thought – really thought – about bedding them, she squealed and crinkled her nose.

Perhaps she was like Pavetta in that respect. The princess was a romantic through and through, and Emhyr, for whatever else he was, was a handsome man, pale-skinned and put together. And clean. Not like the kings of the Northern Realms, who ever smelt of old blood, old sweat and fur. It was like living with a pack of wet hounds, she thought.

“Oh yes,” Ciri replied and this time her smile was sincere.

“Tell me,” Yennefer said, warming the water with conjured flames.

When the tub had warmed enough, she scattered scented oils over the water, filling the bedroom with bergamot, lavender and lemongrass. Ciri removed her silver belt and harness, kicked off her leather boots, peeled off her shirt and blood-stained breeches, and stepped from her ragged smallclothes. She heard Yennefer’s murmur of respect. She was covered head to toe in purple bruises, half-healed scars and clotted scabs, but she’d matured since the last time Yennefer had seen her. She was still taller than most, though her hips and breasts had now filled out to match.

Settling in the tub, she told her of everything that had happened following the nonhuman-instigated riot in Rivia. About Galahad and his search for the Holy Grail, of King Arthur and his magical sword, Excalibur, of the Knights they met, the beasts they slew together. And of the nights they shared.

As she spoke, Yennefer listened with candid interest. Though Ciri was more than capable of washing herself, she’d taken up a cloth and started to scrub the caked-on muck off her neck and back. She combed her fingers through her silver hair, scouring bugs, leaves and mud from her scalp. She was rather rough, and Ciri bit her lip several times not to cry out, but it was a familiar and bizarrely comforting kind of pain.

“And I’ve been running ever since,” Ciri finished while Yennefer brushed her hair, the comb snagging on several stubborn knots.

“I’m sorry, Ciri. Truly.”

“I know…” She silently swore that soon the King of the Hunt would pay. She would make sure of that. His life wouldn’t bring Galahad back, nor more than Bonhart’s had her friends. Still, feeling the bounty hunter's heart stop, watching his life’s blood seeping from his wounds brought no small bit of satisfaction. Taking Eredin’s head from his shoulders, the way he’d taken Galahad’s, would most surely bring her similar pleasure.

To brighten her spirits, the raven-haired sorceress presented Ciri with a new tunic made of silk that brought out the colour of her eyes. It was embroidered in twisting vines and inset with ivory pearls instead of beads. The matching pair of breeches were made of brown calf-skin, soft and supple, and equally elaborate – in typical Yennefer fashion. Perfect, she explained, for someone with Ciri’s lifestyle. The outfit was finished with a necklace in the shape of the lion that ornamented the banners of Cintra.

Ciri hadn’t realized how much she’d needed that bath before. Now, she felt fresh, her chest, neck and shoulder muscles relaxing.

She looked out the window to where a bunch of Black Ones were repairing the curtain wall, replacing the old stone with new. She was surprised to see so many Nilfgaardians here, surprised that Geralt or the other Witchers would have let them come. She hoped it would be enough…

Far below, Geralt paused in his precarious work building explosive traps with Eskel to sit with a black-haired man in the coolness of the lengthening shadows. The man offered the Witcher a skin from which he took a long swig and coughed violently, vomiting half of it on the cobbles near their feet. Still choking, he laughed and smacked the man on the back with a fondness she rarely saw from him.

“That man with Geralt,” she said, staring into the courtyard, “I know him.”

“You should,” Yennefer replied, placing the combs in their cases neatly, “That’s Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach. An imperial knight and Count of Vicovaro.”

Ciri tested the name on her lips. _Cahir…_ “He serves the Emperor, then.”

“Your father? Yes. He’s in his secret service.”

“He was there when Cintra fell,” she stated, remembering. The Black Knight with feathers in his shining helm. In her nightmares he’d stood so tall, a hulking beast seated on the back of a black stallion, with eyes that blazed like burning coals.

Standing beside Geralt in the courtyard, he looked no more threatening than a farmhand or a merchant’s son in that plain, white, cotton shirt and boots caked in mud, with his neat black curls bouncing in the cool, mountain breeze. Or that smile, that crease that formed in the corner of his mouth when Geralt said something witty. And his eyes…They weren’t red; they were blue. Blue like clear water. Blue like a cloudless sky.

A long, ragged scar ran from his temple to his mouth, rather like the scar that blemished Ciri’s face. That was new. She would have remembered a scar like that.

“He was at Stygga Castle too.”

“He was,” Yennefer agreed and, finished with Ciri, started to brush her own nest of black curls.

“I called him a Witcher,” Ciri explained. She had run into them – Cahir and some fair-haired woman bleeding from her thigh – by chance. “Cahir – the Black Knight - haunted me every night.”

“I remember…”

“I thought there was nothing that could frighten me more than that man…” She chuckled haughtily to herself. “What a fool I was. He never hurt me. Bonhart though…He’d killed my friends. He’d…” Ciri cut herself off. She refused to remember the things Bonhart had put her through. “He was chasing me. When I ran into them in that hall, I _begged_ Cahir not to fight him. I begged him to run. The man that had haunted me so…the thought of what Bonhart might do haunted me more.”

“But he fought him,” said Yennefer knowingly. She’d seen the scar that ran the length of Cahir’s face. It was impossible not to. Discretion prevented her inquiring openly, but curiosity had proved stronger. She’d sifted through his thoughts and found the chaotic mess of memories of that night. She’d seen through Cahir’s eyes the bounty hunter smashing him in the face like a battering ram. She saw the knight stumble and felt the bite of steel cutting his cheek, tasted the blood in his mouth. She even felt the bright white heat of Bonhart’s blade sundering him neck to navel, the cold, hard realization that this was it. The fear, the panic, the regret.

She would not tell Ciri that though. Already she could feel Ciri’s rising sorrow.

“He protected me. Why? He could have been killed. And for what?”

“Ask him,” she suggested.

Ciri nodded. Cahir was there when Cintra fell. He was there on Thanedd, the first time her powers truly manifested themselves, the first time she’d traveled between worlds. And he was there when Bonhart met his proper end. Perhaps it was not only Geralt that she was bound to by Destiny.

She turned from the window, intent on finding out.


	6. Chapter 6

“Is it enough?”

Geralt hesitated before taking a sip from the wineskin. Cahir had somehow managed to find someone that made moonshine similar to Regis’s, though only similar. Geralt was convinced no one – _no one_ – could make hooch like that but a high vampire.

The Witcher looked out over the valley, where Nilfgaardians were frantically putting together trebuchets and filling pits with sharpened spears. Their efficiency was impressive, to say the least. The walls of the fortress were close to completion. The new sections stood in sharp contrast to its old ones, supported by palisades that continued past the renovations to encircle the bailey. Eredin would spot them immediately, would know that they were still the weakest points. They had to believe that the support systems would be enough to prevent them breaching. There was little time for the concrete to cure.

“We have to hope that it will be,” he replied, passing the wineskin back.

Cahir took a sip and coughed, wiping his mouth in the back of his hand. “Hope. It’s been so long since we’ve based our entire strategy on that, hasn’t it?”

Geralt nodded. Four years. Four years since they’d last stood together on the battlefield. He hoped this battle ended better than the last one.

“Geralt,” said a feminine voice behind them.

Cahir startled, spilling the colourless hooch over his shirtfront; her footsteps were so soft, he never heard her. Geralt must have. His Witcher senses were sharp.

The Black Knight blushed, flustered by his clumsiness. “Princess Cirilla.” He bowed his head.

“No, please. None of that,” Ciri said, her silver brow furrowing. “I’ve not been Princess Cirilla for some time. Here, now, I’m only Ciri.”

He nodded, but kept his eyes focused on the ends of her riding boots. If he looked her in the eyes - those beautiful emerald eyes so wide, accentuated with black liner - he was certain she would know the truth; she would read the thoughts flooding his head like a book. Her boots though. That was a safe enough place to look. They were well worn, he noted, covered in scuffs and peeling from the thick, wooden soles.

The Witcher cleared his throat.

“Geralt, may we have a moment? In private?” Her tone was dangerously edged and Cahir couldn't help wondering if she meant to finish what she'd started on Thanedd after all, and kill him in retribution for what happened in Cintra. Or perhaps she meant only to clout him in the ear. 

“Hm. I need to check on Lambert – make sure he hasn’t killed one of the sorceresses yet.”

As he headed inside, he shot Cahir a concerned look. _Good luck._ He’d known enough incensed women – and he’d known how much the Black Knight once terrified Ciri - to be worried for his friend.

When they were alone, Ciri stated with no real emotion, "I remember you."

Cahir kicked a pebble, sent it skittering over the cobblestones towards a set of short steps where it tumbled over the edge. How many times had he imagined this moment? Standing face to face with her? How many times had he imagined what he would say to her?

“I’m sorry,” he said. It was not one of the things he’d imagined he’d say first; though, it was what felt like the proper thing to say right then and there. “I never had the chance to say that before. I’m sorry for what happened in Cintra. For those men that I killed. I’m sorry for Thanedd.”

Ciri pressed her lips together firmly, so thin and colourless. She remained silent, content to hear his confession.

“I served Emhyr var Emreis in his secret service,” Cahir explained. “I wasn’t much older than you at the time – a few months passed sixteen. But I was a fast learner and I wanted so terribly to be of service. The Northerners… Well. Let’s say that I had my reasons."

He'd never forgotten the night that his mother summoned him to sit with her: the beating of the icy rain, like stones, the echo of thunder outside the castle, the flashes of lightning that painted such harsh shadows on the walls. He remembered the constant thrum of feminine weeping, a haunting sound that followed him and crept into his small chest like a living thing. He'd wanted nothing than to hide in the crawl space beneath his bed, his ears and eyes shut, and believe everything would be fine, if only he stayed there. But his mother summoned him to sit with her, her only remaining son. Cahir remembered thinking she looked so terribly frightening. This was not the mother that he'd known, the mother that he'd loved. _His_ mother was beautiful, comely, forever laughing and smiling, and he felt safe with her. This woman... Her skin was pale, spotted here or there with red splotches, stretched tight over the bones of her horrid face. Her blue eyes were wet and swollen, the flesh pink and bloated. Her lips - the lips that had kissed his scratches to make them better, that had peppered his cheeks and lips and neck to elicit his boyish laughter while she tickled him or held him tight - were pressed tightly together and there was no softness or warmth within her. She was a stranger, and Cahir was certain, when she turned her swollen eyes on him, taking him roughly by his shoulders, that she would beat him or claw his face with her nails.

Instead, she had made him swear to hate the Northerners that had killed his brothers, swear that he would have his vengeance. And he, a boy of ten with his mother's fingers pressing so hard she left purple bruises on his skin, had sworn. 

“You can’t imagine what it was like… the feeling of being chosen for such a critical task. I thought I would be the one – the hero that prevented the war from happening, by simply bringing the Emperor what he wanted.”

_And what he wanted was me…_ she thought. But to what end? Why had her father not revealed himself to be Duny? He was a Cintran prince through marriage to her mother regardless. And women couldn’t rule without a Consort or Regent. Why had he invaded with his legions of Black Ones, taken her home by force, killed her people – _his_ people - rather than ruled through Ciri peacefully?

She shook her head. Perhaps she was happier not knowing the truth.

“Back then… I was a soldier following his orders. You meant nothing to me, no more than the hundreds of other children I’d seen in the North. That night, when I saw you, and hauled you into my saddle, and held you against my armour… you weren’t what I was expecting,” he said. “’The Lion Cub of Cintra’. Such a lofty title for such a small and skinny thing.”

At that, she smiled. But it was a brief smile. He was still talking and she needed to know more.

“Later that night, when I stopped to let the horse rest, I meant to explain what happened, to comfort you as best I could. I know how it must sound, but I never intended to frighten you.”

Ciri remembered. After hours of hard riding, he’d stopped to water his horse on the bank of a shallow stream. She was filthy, her once blue cloak and silk skirts black with ash, blood and soot. He’d stumbled over the Common Tongue, mumbling something several times before settling into Nilfgaardian. But Ciri hadn’t known Nilgaardian back then – even now, she knew only the words that were similar to Elder Speech. So when he’d reached for her skirts, she’d thought he’d rape her, the way enemy soldiers would often rape their captives. The fact that he’d only meant to wash her, make her more comfortable, never crossed her mind. So, Ciri had resisted, hissing like a cat and kicking with both feet. She’d booted him in the helm, the clang of steel causing his ears to ring. Suddenly livid, he’d pegged her with a clump of loose turf which she threw back, missing by over a foot.

“I considered killing you,” Ciri confessed. She could still feel the weight of the rock, shining white in the light of the half moon. She’d stood over the Black Knight’s sleeping form. She’d considered smashing his skull in, the way she’d smashed bugs in the castle courtyard. He was still wearing his winged helm, thought, and Ciri knew she was not strong enough to bash in a helmet made of steel. If she tried removing the helm, he would certainly wake.

“You chose to flee instead. For that, I’m thankful.”

Ciri shifted her weight, and folded her arms casually. She could have said something clever, something witty. But she wasn’t in the mood to be teasing him. Teasing implied interest and right now, she only wanted his story. “Then what happened?”

“I scoured the countryside. Everywhere there were hundreds of refugees, fleeing the city. I searched for nearly a week, but I could not find you.

“Eventually I had no choice. I surrendered myself to Emhyr’s men. I returned to Nilfgaard, where your father had me thrown in prison for my failure. Truth be told, I was fortunate to have my head.

“Months passed. I’m not sure how many. I kept expecting them to come for me, to fulfill my sentence. But instead, sometime later, the Emperor summoned me. They bathed me, fed me, shaved my beard, cut my hair. Still, I thought. _They’re tricking me. They’re leading me like sheep to be slaughtered, but they’re not showing me the knife._

“Instead, the Emperor told me that I would sail to Thanedd with a handful of Scoia’tael and Rience. The mages were holding a Conclave there, he said, and among them would be Cirilla, the Cintran princess that everyone thought had perished. I was instructed to capture the princess, the way I was supposed to last time, and bring her to Nilfgaard where she would be safe. He told me that the mages were planning something that would change the world and Cirilla was a key player in that.

“And so I went with Rience to wait.”

Cahir was surprised that they weren’t found well before the banquet started. They’d hidden in the basement, beneath Aretuza, for over a fortnight, eating nothing but hard salt beef, cheese and lukewarm water, and making not a sound. Occasionally the Squirrels would catch fish from the rivers that flowed in from the sea, though Cahir never touched them. They weren’t cod or pike or salmon but strange creatures with buggy eyes and sharp teeth, and eels with scales that shimmered silver in the firelight. They’d been born and bred among magic, and he wasn’t so sure that they were okay to eat. Maybe they were sorceresses that failed to master transfiguration.

He heard the banquet on the eve of the Conclave. The laughter, the music, the sounds of wanton enjoyment from the mages who would, in so soon a time, be revealed for the manipulative monsters that they were.

Hours later, when everyone had found their beds – or the beds of others – an Elven sorceress with beautiful emerald eyes and hair like sunshine said that the time of the Elves was nigh.

Cahir hadn't cared one bit what Elves wanted. His only concern was finding his princess, and bringing her to Nilfgaard so she would be safe from the people who intended to harm her. The Emperor would keep her safe, he thought. _He_ would keep her safe.

He’d taken the winding stairs three at a time, and, near the top, caught a flash of silver hair. He knew it was her. Princess Cirilla. He’d never forget her face.

Then… Chaos. In moments, the entire island was aflame and Cahir lost his way in the labyrinth of banquet halls and classrooms and residences. Some of the sorcerers were sleeping, tangled in their beds, legs and arms around a lover or two, and awoke to blood and fire and screams.

Cahir wasn’t there to kill sorcerers, but he’d been forced to slay three when they’d thrown balls of fire or struck him with knives. None of them had much experience with close-quarters combat though, and he felled them as easily as cattle.

He’d run into several fair-haired women, cowering in rooms, beneath tables or running through flaming halls. None of them were Ciri. A few of them clutched his arm, said they were faithful servants of the One True Emperor, if only he’d save them. But Cahir had shrugged them off, told them to flee if they could. He was not there to rescue them. 

“Fuck,” he’d cursed, wiping blood from his sword blade on the nightshift of one of the fallen sorcerers. Beneath his helm his skin was blistering, burning where metal touched flesh. “Fuck Rience and fuck Vilgefortz.” If they hadn’t started lighting the place up like madmen, he might’ve found her by now and been miles from here.

Of course, he’d found her in the courtyard later. She had narrowly escaped Rience by climbing out a window, and leaped onto a crumbling footbridge. He'd seen her, miraculously, when he'd run outside to catch his breath, hoping she might've run that way. He watched from the courtyard while she skipped from pillar to pillar, then leapt like a cat and landed with as much grace. He’d caught her easily enough; even a Witcher couldn’t outrun a horse, and his horse – the one that he’d stolen from the school’s stables – was bred to carry messengers across countries.

_"Don’t touch me!”_ she’d shrieked drawing her sword. _“You’ll never touch me again!”_

Finally, he raised his eyes. His pretty blue eyes. Ciri's stomach clenched painfully. “Why didn’t you kill me back then?”

Ciri plucked a root that was winding between the bricks, flicked it with her middle finger. She frowned. “Honestly? Because the man that frightened me so – the Black Knight that haunted my every night – wasn’t what I saw before me that morning. What I saw was a man not much older than me.” _With beautiful eyes and kissable lips, and black curls I could run my fingers through..._

“He was bleeding, clutching his bloody hand. He looked ready to cry. Helpless... I’d never taken a life before. I couldn’t let my first kill be someone that helpless.”

They were both silent, considering each other’s words.

“You befriended Geralt after that?” Ciri prompted after some time had passed and a cloud crossed over the sun.

“Yes.” He nodded. “A few weeks later while I was being transported back to Nilfgaard to stand trial for treason, Geralt rescued me. Of course, he hadn’t realized who I was. Had he known, I think he would have left me to rot there in my prison. But he let me leave, told me that he’d kill me if I followed him.”

“You followed him, I imagine?”

“I was a fast learner, but tenacious. I knew the Witcher from Thanedd. I knew that he would eventually lead me to you.”

Ciri crossed one knee over the other. “Bringing me to Emhyr would have led to a full pardon.”

Cahir shook his head. “I was long passed clemency. If I’d set foot in the capital, with or without you, I would’ve been hanging by nightfall. No. I realized that the only way I might recover my honour would be by becoming your Champion… if you’d have me.”

“My Champion?” Ciri stared at his scar. His horrible, horrible scar. A mirror to her own. “So that’s why... in Stygga Castle…?”

“I’m sorry I was not strong enough to kill that man, to protect you from him.”

“That man was a bounty hunter. Leo Bonhart,” Ciri explained, her throat suddenly thick. “He’d killed three Witchers. Few people could have killed him.”

“You managed to,” Cahir said, and couldn’t hide his smirk.

“I was lucky, to be honest.” If it had really been skill, Ciri thought, she would have killed him long before she had. She would have killed Eredin too.

“It was more than luck. Of that I’m sure.” Her skill with a blade was impressive. There were few swordsmen that were better than Cahir – not that he liked to brag. Ciri was better than every one he’d met. Of course, he hadn’t really _fought_ her on Thanedd. He’d stupidly believed she was still that helpless little child he’d pulled from the burning Cintran streets.

“I’m not so sure.”

Cahir eyes seemed to bore into her, searching for the lie. The corner of his mouth twitched. “Care to wager?”

“What?”

“Come on.” He headed into the training yard, Ciri close behind.

Memories came flooding back to her. Memories of being beaten black and blue by spinning beams, of balancing, blindfolded, on the crumbling stone walls, of practicing footwork, of slashing strawmen with her sword and making them wobble, of sprinting through the trees, branches and needles scratching her skin.

"A contest." Cahir picked two practice swords off the weapons rack, throwing one to Ciri that she caught in mid-air. "Let's see what you are made of, She-Wolf. Fight me. But hold nothing back. I'm not a Witcher, but I'm skilled enough with a sword, and have lost only a few fights in my time."

Ciri examined the wooden blade, turning it over in her hands. The core was made of steel, balanced by a perfectly round pommel. "Practice swords? Are you afraid of losing to me, Nilfgaardian?

He raised his right hand, his forefinger and thumb curled, his remaining three fingers rigid, barely twitching when he tried bending them, a permanent reminder of Thanedd. "I would be foolish not to be."

“What’s the wager?”

He rolled both sleeves to his elbow. “If I win…” He thought it over. Emhyr wanted Ciri. _“Convince her I only mean to speak to her.”_ If he won, he would convince her to meet with Emhyr in Vizima and the Emperor's price would be paid. 

“If I win, you must satisfy one request – _whatever_ I request. And if you are victorious, I’ll satisfy one request of yours.”

Ciri raised her silver brows, her eyes sparkling and her lips twisting into a feline smile. “Is that so?”

Cahir turned bright red, hearing his own words as she heard them. “No. No! I meant…" _Great Sun..._ It sounded crude, perverse, an exchange of sexual favours. He hadn't meant it that way. Although... Seeing her now, for the first time calm, clean, and comfortable, he was reminded that she was a beautiful woman. And how she smiled, her lips a sly smirk. If he won and invited her into his bed... "That is... Never mind.” 

She sniggered. “Very well.”

After some thought he said, “But no magic. This contest is based on swordsmanship, yes?”

Ciri shrugged and assumed a fighting stance, her knees slightly bent but not tilted. If she tilted too much, then he could throw her off balance, cause her knees to buckle.

Cahir spun the practice sword several times, testing the weight. It was lighter than full steel, but heavier than pure wood. He mirrored her stance, balanced on the balls of his feet.

They circled each other, searching for tells in their movement and posture. Ciri’s movements were fast, smooth, like she was floating on water rather than walking over stone. Cahir’s movements were clunkier, slower. He was habituated to fighting in heavy plate, and being protected by it. But his size was his strength. He was a head taller than her, with broader shoulders and harder muscles, which forced her to be even faster.

He lunged at her with a high slash. Ciri raised her sword, meeting the blow with a crack of wood on wood, and expertly parrying. The momentum sent him reeling back, but he’d known she would block his strike and fell backwards into a roll. He picked himself up, and came from the high left, while Ciri struck with a fast, low slash from the right, smacking him in his satorius before blocking with a hanging guard and finishing with a graceful pirouette.

Cahir cursed and instinctively examined his side; if their blades were edged, he would be bleeding.

A few of the men repairing the walls paused their work to watch, and Ciri saw Avallac’h emerge from one of the windows of the fortress’s towers, leaning on the frame with his long arms crossed neatly over his chest.

“Hm… Your men’re watching. Best not lose to me, Nilfgaardian.”

Cahir shrugged. “Their Emperor is your father. It would impress them to see how skilled his beloved child is.”

“Beloved?” Ciri snorted, striking suddenly. “Are those his words or yours?”

Cahir saw the thrust coming, meeting it with a close guard and parry that he turned aside and met with a second slash. The clacking of their practice swords echoed over the courtyard. He hit low, forcing her to block, then rapidly swung from the right, which Ciri returned with a mid-level strike. Cahir swung his sword back, circling his head, then brought it down hard on the back of her neck.

Ciri cried out, taking a few shaking steps forward. Had their blades been made of steel, that could have taken her head off, or very nearly.

They traded blows, each parrying and striking in term, battering each other until bruises started blooming like black ink in water beneath their clothes. Every time Cahir forced her back, Ciri returned with a thrust as fast as a striking viper. Once, she nearly took an eye out but scratched his cheek instead.

“Getting tired?” Ciri teased, catching him in a grapple.

“Not even slightly," he lied. Sweat fell from his brow, threatening to blind him. Cahir let his blade fall, the lack of tension forcing Ciri to balance on her toes. He struck with a high swing, and Ciri lifted her sword to block it, but he feinted, immediately clutching the blade itself with his other hand. He slid a knee between her legs, catching her behind the calf with his foot. Then, he slammed the cross-guard into her the crook of her neck, where her neck met her shoulder, and flipped her over his knee. Ciri slammed into the stone with a loud _thump_ , a burst of fire in her back, chest and shoulders, and a numbness shooting through her limbs. Her sword tumbled from loose fingers. For several moments, she couldn’t catch her breath. Grinning, Cahir leaned over her, the “edge” of his sword to her throat.

“Well fought, She-Wolf," he said, chest heaving. "But I think I’ve w- “

There was a flash of bright light, a hiss, and the malodor of burning ozone. Cahir’s mouth fell opened and he blinked several times. Ciri vanished! “What!”

Another flash of light, this time only the brief reflection on the wall, and Ciri was behind him. She slammed her heel into the back of his knees and caught him by the back of his shirt before he could hit the cobbles face-first. She twisted his wrist and stole his sword from his hand, locked it beneath his chin, tugged violently and held it there, firmly pressed to his throat.

“Cheater,” he hissed, for the blade was pressed so hard to his throat. “We said there would be no magic.”

“ _You_ said,” she corrected him with a smirk. Ciri released him, stepping back. “ _That_ makes me the winner.”

Cahir clutched his neck, sucking in the cold mountain air. He wiped his top lip with his sleeve. Ciri hardly even seemed winded and her tunic was only slightly soiled, small spots of sweat beneath each arm.

Ciri picked up her practice sword from where it landed and replaced them on the weapon rack. She shot him a look over her shoulder, eyes sparkling in the sunlight. “You owe me one request, Nilfgaardian. Don’t forget.”

Cahir watched her leave, and heard the chuckles from his men, though they tried hiding them behind their hands or coughing into their elbows. His loss would echo throughout camp later tonight. Of that, he was certain. He hadn’t lied though. As humiliating as it was, losing to a woman, Ciri’s prowess would only serve to impress the men.

“Back to work!” Cahir snapped, finding his feet.

Should the Lion Cub follow in Emhyr’s footsteps and claim her rightful place on the throne, no one would object to her worth.


	7. Chapter 7

A storm was coming, Geralt thought, looking out over the Gwenllech River from the balcony outside his room. The river shimmered like silver crystal in the moonlight, the fast-moving currents like rippled embellishments. The banks were beginning to freeze over, frost kissing the bulrushes and reeds that lined the muddy shore. Soon, they’d have to carve holes in the ice to fish for burbot, pikeperch and trout.

The valley below the keep was aglow with a hundred campfires, painting the cliffs and thickets in orange and red. The Nilfgaardians and Skelligers had miraculously not slaughtered each other. There’d been only one scuffle, the evening before last, wherein a drunk Skelliger had pissed on the boots of a Nilfgaardian cavalryman – the second son of the second son of some noble or other, with far too much pride for someone with only the faintest of peach fuzz on his cheeks. The cavalryman had punched the Skelliger, which led to a brawl that brought in five other Black Ones and four Islanders. When word reached their commanding officers, Hjalmar laughed a laugh like pealing thunder and said that it was well-deserved; men needed to let out some blood sometimes. Kept their minds sharp, he said. Cahir, on the other hand, was fuming. Geralt seldom saw the man so enraged. He was more than often the epitome of composure, having learned to mask whatever he was feeling in Court, surrounded by spies and vipers.

But that night, not even the Great Sun the man worshipped could have burned more fiercely. When Cahir heard his captain’s report, he’d turned crimson and knocked the helmet off one of the training dummies in the courtyard, sending it smashing into the wall with a rattle like old pots.

“I thought I made myself perfectly clear,” he’d snarled in Nilfgaardian. His natural accent made his rage even fiercer. “We were _not_ to engage the Skelligers.”

“Yes, My Lord,” replied the captain obediently, staring at his toes. He too had never seen Cahir so furious; it was not proper for Nilfgaardian nobles to show their emotions. He was noticeably shaking and pale as clotted milk. “Forgive me, My Lord. The fight was broken up immediately. No one was hurt.”

“I should have them all _hanged_ ,” he’d spat, barely listening. “But I need every man I have.” He whirled on the captain, his eyes flaring. “The little shit that started this.”

“Lord Tanius – “ began the captain hesitantly.

“Whoever he is!” Cahir snapped. “Have him flogged ‘til either he faints or is so bloody he can’t sit a horse for a week. Whichever comes first. The others… Give them half-rations for four – no three - days. I’m feeling generous.”

“Of course, My Lord,” stammered the captain. “It won’t happen again.”

“If it does,” the Black Knight threatened, “I’ll kick out the stumps from beneath them myself.”

Geralt, who had overheard the conversation, leapt off the short wall on which he was perched. “That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it? Although, it’s on par with most Nilfgaardian punishments, I suppose.”

Cahir snarled, still burning. “The men need to know that my threats aren’t idle – and that wealth and status does not exempt them from retribution for stupidity.”

“Nothing happened,” the Witcher replied slowly. “Some bruises. Hurt pride.”

“But something _could have_ happened,” he said. “Someone could have been killed. Or they could have brought hostility between our forces. We cannot even hope to face the Wild Hunt if we cannot stand together.”

Of that, Cahir was right.

The Witcher could hear the clang of steel floating over the treetops as blades were crafted in makeshift forges, sharpened to a deadly edge on whirring grindstones. He heard the laughter and shouting of the men of both camps, and occasionally, jaunty singing, though there weren’t any musicians among the troops. If they’d had woman, Geralt was certain that he would have heard feminine giggling and moans and sighs and sounds of pleasure rising from the camps too, but the only women for leagues were Angoulême, Ciri, Milva, Ves, and the three sorceresses staying in Kaer Morhen. So they’d have to find other means of releasing tension.

Here in the keep though . . . 

Angoulême was a woman, and had known men well before Geralt had rescued her – he still remembered the how she had offered herself to him, payment for saving her life. But she was little more than a child then, and had reminded him too much of Ciri with her large, moss-coloured eyes, her peppering of brown freckles, her pale hair; the mere thought of sleeping with her was enough to make the Witcher feel sick. Now, she was a proper woman, and if Milva had not told her to stay within Kaer Morhen’s walls, perhaps she would’ve sought the company of one of Cahir’s soldiers, or Hjalmar’s men.

And Milva… Geralt wasn’t even sure that the Dryad liked men, to be honest. She’d found herself with child, once, having lain with a band of Scoia’tael, while fleeing from human soldiers. But whether she’d wanted it or simply submitted to it so not to be left out, he was not sure.

Ciri, Geralt chose not to ponder. The Witcher could not sire children of his own – even if he’d wanted. But Ciri was _his_ child. She was Emhyr’s seed, had his blood, but Geralt raised her, taught her how to fight, to hunt, to survive. And Geralt loved her. He wanted her to be happy, to find fulfillment in life, to know peace. And if she fell in love, the way he’d loved Triss, and Yennefer . . . He would be even happier.

She’d been lonely for so long, lost without a constant friend or lover for support, someone to help her bear the weight of the world. If she could find that . . . 

For his part, Geralt wasn’t sure what he wanted. He’d shared the beds of each of the sorceresses, though Keira Metz seemed far more interested in teasing Lambert than continuing whatever it was Geralt had shared with her. She was wise enough to know that their time together had been fleeting, and meant nothing more than a moment’s physical pleasure.

But Triss . . . Triss cared for him still. She was as shrewd as every other sorceress when counselling courtiers and kings, but childish and weak in matters concerning the Witcher. And Geralt, to his shame, hadn’t helped matters. The problem was, he truly cared for her too. She was beautiful, kind, smart and strong, and he enjoyed her company, in bed and out. But was it love? Once, he might have thought so. That was before he’d remembered Yennefer – remembered that they were bound together by Destiny. Before he remembered everything he’d sacrificed and suffered to be with her.

Yennefer, in typical Yennefer fashion, said nothing on the matter – though her throwing his bed out the window spoke volumes.

A roar erupted from inside the fortress, immediately followed by hooting laughter, and Geralt made his way back into the Great Hall. A long oak table, was covered in food, surrounded by the leaders of the various factions Geralt managed to collect. He’d invited them into Kaer Morhen to make their final preparations, but tonight, no one was even thinking of the Wild Hunt. The Hall thrummed with energy, feeling more like a banquet or wedding feast than a war council.

Geralt was surprised when Hjalmar proclaimed he’d brought enough food for a feast and had not been embellishing. There was barely bread, chicken stew chalk full of carrots, onions, and turnips and flavoured with a thick, brown beer, a creamy, butter-like cheese topped with berries and crushed nuts, flanks of lamb seasoned with herbs and spices, ham, oatcakes, root vegetables basted in honey, and smoked fish sliced thin on a bed of lettuce and pickled capers. Geralt wasn’t sure that a feast was appropriate, but before he could say something, Avallac’h intervened, appearing as if from smoke on the narrow stairwell beside him.

“Let them have their fun,” he said softly, as if he’d read the Witchers thoughts – which he likely had. The Elven sage had kept to himself, seeing and speaking to none, save Ciri. Once. The curse Eredin cast had taken much of his strength, and Yennefer’s negation spell had taken the rest. Though he was recovering, the process was slow. Though Geralt suspected he would have kept his own company even if he was well. Avallac’h had never hidden his contempt for their kind. The only reason he’d helped Ciri in the first place was because of the Elder Blood in her veins, of that he was certain.

Geralt scowled. He never liked listening to Avallac’h’s lectures. He had this way of speaking that made the Witcher feel like a child being scolded. “We ought to be preparing.”

“We’ve been preparing. But the time for preparation is over. Eredin may be here within a fortnight, or within an hour; it matters not. Whatever plans we’ve made will have to suffice.” The Aen Elle looked over Geralt’s motley band, his pale eyes full of such scorn that it made the hairs on Geralt’s neck bristle. “But some of these men – most of them, perhaps – will not survive the battle to come. No battle comes without cost. You know that.”

“Aye,” Geralt said with a nod. “But if we can keep that cost low . . . ”

“Even if one man perishes, you cannot know who he might be. Perhaps, it will be the Islander King, or one of the Emperor’s soldiers, or Yennefer. Or perhaps it will be the bard Dandelion. He’s been fortunate so many times. But eventually, even fortune runs out.”

A low rumble erupted from Geralt’s throat. “Dandelion will keep well inside the keep, with Ciri. Far from harm.”

“A formidable warrior, selected to protect the only person here who even matters.” Avallac’h chuckled haughtily, not bothering to hide his condescension for Geralt’s plan. “A wise choice.”

“Dandelion won’t be protecting Ciri,” Geralt said, annoyed. “But he’s no fighter, so this will be the safest spot for him.”

“Then who . . . ?” Avallac’h’s eyes narrowed with realization, remembering their exhibition in the courtyard. “That Nilfgaardian, then?”

“Cahir has seasoned soldiers who will lead the Nilfgaardians once the battle begins. He’s insisted they can fight without his immediate leadership. Hjalmar is not reliable. Skelligers are fierce but temperamental and aren’t as disciplined, especially fighting on land,” the Witcher explained simply. “Archers and mages can keep the Hunt outside Kaer Morhen as long as possible, where it will be easier to engage with smaller units.”

“Caranthir cannot move hundreds of soldiers all at once,” Avallac’h agreed.

“And if, somehow, someone breaches Yennefer’s field, or they break through our walls, I need someone strong watching Ciri.”

“And you really trust him? This . . . Cahir? Even though he is Emperor Emhyr’s man?”

 _More than you_ , Geralt thought bitterly, but now was not the time to open those wounds. “Absolutely.”

“He’s in love with her,” the Elf observed.

“He is. Always has been.” Geralt nodded. “And because of that, I know he will keep her that much safer.”

Avallac’h shrugged, a motion that was intended to be casual, insouciant, but Geralt noticed a faint muscle feather in his jaw, and his eyes seemed to burn into Cahir like blue flames. _He’s jealous . . ._ Geralt realized. _But why?_ Could it be that Avallac’h cared for Ciri too? Had he taken to her in their time together? Or was it something else? He only wanted Ciri for her blood – even she knew that. Perhaps the sage was concerned that Ciri might return Cahir’s feelings. And if she should bed him, if she should someday find herself with a child . . . What would happen to Avallac’h’s precious bloodline then?

“He’s my brother, even if he is from the Empire,” Geralt said between his teeth, so that Avallac’h knew not to cross him. If he should try for his life . . . Geralt would make the Elf wish he was back to being that nose-picking simpleton, Uma.

Geralt had had enough of Avallac’h’s company and left without bothering to excuse himself. Avallac’h said nothing, only vanished back into his room, a shadow. Ciri would bring him something to eat later, most like, or he would conjure his own food somehow; perhaps with portals, the way Geralt had known sorcerers to procure rich foods from far off lands without a fuss. Either way, he was content not to have to suffer the Elf’s scornful stare and condescending tone longer than necessary.

He wasted no time filling his plate with a bit of everything. Meals like this came few and far between. In court, he might’ve maintained some level of reservation; but here, surrounded by the closest thing he had to true friends, Geralt filled his belly. In one way, Avallac’h had it right – no war came without cost. If Geralt himself should fall, he’d rather fall with a belly full of proper food.

The Witcher found some space on one of the benches between Cahir and Dandelion. Cahir had chosen the far side of the table, where his presence would not trouble Hjalmar or the Blue Stripes of Temeria. Angoulême and Milva sat on the opposite side, close together. With Geralt now seated between them, it almost felt like old times. Almost.

Geralt knew that the thought had occurred to them too: Regis wasn’t here. Suddenly, the food lost its taste, and sat heavily in his stomach. This felt _wrong_ somehow, without Regis there.

But then Cahir lifted his pewter cup, forcing himself to smile, though when he inhaled, his chest trembled and his eyes were wet with tears that he would not permit himself to shed. “To Regis, the best friend a man could ever want for. Wherever he is, may he know peace.”

The five of them raised their cups, murmured “To Regis.” and drank long and deep, and silently.

Ciri, from her seat nearer the middle of the bench, watched them with interest. Though Geralt was familiar with everyone here, there was a bond between the five of them that was stronger than those between the Witcher and everyone else. _They’re a family_ , Ciri realized.

She thought about Cahir’s confession and remembered that they were at Stygga Castle too, everyone except Dandelion. Ciri had never met Milva, nor the man named Regis. They’d been in other parts of the castle, fending off Vilgafortz and his men. Angoulême had been with Cahir when Ciri ran into them by chance, Bonhart in her wake. Angoulême had been injured, her thigh bleeding profusely. Cahir had told them to flee, while he stayed to fight the bounty hunter, and for a moment, she had refused. But she knew she could not help him in her state, and fled.

Watching them together, Ciri couldn’t help wondering if there was something between them. Angoulême hadn’t taken her eyes of Cahir the whole evening. She smiled whenever he spoke, and blushed when he looked her way. After everyone finished eating, nothing left of the feast but bones and chewy sinew, and cards and dice were brought out, she insisted on playing Gwent with him, shoving Milva off the bench so that she was across from him. Her foot must’ve brushed his a few times, because she muttered “Oops! Sorry” a few times, and Cahir replied that she had become so tall. Ciri thought she sounded anything but sorry.

Her stomach twisted and she swallowed half her cup of mead in one pull, hoping the thick liquid would calm her belly, put her racing thoughts from her mind. Why would it matter to Ciri if Angoulême cared for Cahir? They had known each other far longer than Ciri knew him, spent more time together. Perhaps they’d even shared each other’s beds before. They’d travelled together for months – eaten together, fought together. And Cahir couldn’t have been much older than her. She was comely enough. Geralt had known his share of women, and Yennefer always said that it was natural. Spending so much time together . . . More than likely they _had_ slept together, now that Ciri considered it.

She filled herself another cup and drank heavily, trying not to picture the two of them together. But the more she told herself to stop, the more the thoughts came, of them huddled together beneath the thin blankets of their bedrolls, of Angoulême’s fingers running through Cahir’s hair, of his lips on her lips, her neck, her shoulder. Ciri pressed her palms to her eyes, so hard she saw spots behind her lids. But still, the images remained, only splotchy. She still couldn’t stop thinking of the way he must have knelt over her, her long, muscled legs round his slender, waist, or the way Angoulême might’ve sighed when he entered her, might’ve moaned with every thrust, before finally screaming his name when they went over the edge together.

Ciri shot from her seat, slamming both fists on the table top, hard enough to make the plates rattle. Everyone stared, wondering if something had happened to elicit such an outburst. Yennefer’s smooth voice echoed inside Ciri’s head.

“ _What’s happening? You are causing a scene._ ”

 _“Nothin_ g,” Ciri replied wordlessly. “ _I’m tired_.”

Anyone watching might’ve thought Yennefer had resumed her private conversation with Kiera Metz. But Ciri’s neck flushed red. She felt like she was back in Ellander. “ _I’m not stupid, Ciri. I know what you are thinking. And you are acting childish. Even if it is true – if they were lovers – so what? Bed him if it please you. If not, ignore it_.”

But Ciri, for reasons even she couldn’t explain, couldn’t ignore it. She stormed the length of the oak table, towering over the pair sitting at the end.

“Move!” she snapped at Cahir.

He stared, stunned, as if she’d smacked him with her tone. But then, he rose without a word and Ciri claimed his spot on the bench, noting that it was still warm. She shuffled the cards, while Angoulême collected and shuffled her own. The two women played silently, the air between them crackling like electricity in thunderclouds. Angoulême sensed Ciri’s rage coming off her in waves, but knew not what caused it. She’d been friendly, polite. She’d even tried bonding with Ciri several times over shared histories – they were both Cintran, had both lost their homes, their entire families, in the First War. And both had been taken in by gangs, although Ciri hadn’t liked talking about that. Angoulême believed she had liked her well enough.

“I pass,” Angoulême said, saving her other cards for the next round.

“Pass,” Ciri said miserably. The round was Angoulême’s.

They moved the cards to one side, and continued with a clear board.

“Is something wrong?” Angoulême asked carefully.

“No.” But Ciri pressed her lips together, her silver brow furrowed.

Angoulême played a card and picked two more off the pile, placing them in order from lowest power to highest. “You seem . . . tense, though. Have I said something to offend you?”

Ciri scowled even further. She was losing this round too. There were absolutely awful cards. She wished she’d thought to bring her own – the cards she’d won off the Bloody Baron when he’d taught her how to play. She scanned the board for something, but there was nothing she could play to even tie. “Fuck!” She forfeited the match, throwing her remaining cards in frustration.

She was halfway to her room when Angoulême caught her, clutching her sleeve. “Ciri! Wait!”

Ciri spun, eyes flaring. “Don’t touch me!”

“Sorry . . . ” Angoulême cowered. “I just . . . I’ve obviously offended you and I’d like to know why. Did I say something? Do something?”

Ciri looked her over. She was a beautiful woman, even more so than Ciri remembered. She was tall, though not so tall as Ciri, slim, with limbs of hard muscle. She hadn’t much in the way of proper breasts, Ciri noted, though she was wearing boiled leather so it was hard to really tell. But her face was perfectly round, her skin like moonstone, without mole or scar. And there was something . . . Something that Ciri couldn’t explain, but it reminded her of when she was a child. Braenn and Eithné had a similar, ethereal quality. And Milva too. Because they were Dyrads, living in the Brokilon Forest. That had to be it. She shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

Angoulême continued staring, clearly not ready to let this be. “Tell me. Please, Ciri. I’d like to be friends.”

Friends? That never seemed to work out well for her. But she sighed. “You’re all close, aren’t you? You and Geralt and Milva and . . . everyone.”

Angoulême folded her arms neatly. “I mean . . . I suppose. I live with Milva. She’s like my mother.” She preferred that to being called “Auntie” – “Auntie makes me sound old,” the Dryad had said – “And Geralt saved me. The others were simply there. But, I mean, we were companions for so long. You can’t spend that much time with people without becoming close.”

“Did you . . . ?” Ciri’s throat felt thick, the words refusing to come.

Somehow Angoulême knew what she was implying. “With Geralt? No. I offered, once. I knew what men wanted. And Geralt . . . He’d rescued me so I thought it was fitting payment. I wasn’t exactly flush with coin.”

“Not Geralt.”

“Dandelion? No. And Regis was old. Older than Geralt. Not that I think he was even interested in that. At least, not with me. Probably for the best. He was a higher vampire – Did Geralt ever mention that? He might’ve bitten my neck or something.” She shivered. “And Cahir . . . ”

Ciri’s muscles tensed. _And . . . ?_

“He’s brave, handsome, strong. And as good a man as there ever was. Don’t let the fact that he’s Nilfgaardian – or Vicovarian or whatever – fool you. He’s like . . . a knight straight from a ballad.” Angoulême regarded her with a sad smile. “But he’s never seen me that way. Cahir loves _you_. Always has.”

“Cahir . . . loves me?” Ciri’s knees nearly buckled, her words a swift punch to her stomach. Suddenly, Galahad’s voice echoed in her head. “ _I love you . . ._ ” Eredin’s haunting chuckle. Horse hooves on cobblestones. The hiss of steel. “ _Ciri! Run!_ ” Her lips peeled back over her teeth. “Then he’s stupid!”

Angoulême’s brows came together, confused.

“We barely even know each other!” Ciri continued and Angoulême half-thought she would beat her for lack of someplace else to vent her rage. “That’s why he risked his life for me . . . Bonhart could have killed him simply because he thinks he loves me!” _First Mother . . .Then Grandmother. Everyone in Cintra. Everyone on Thanedd. Asse, Giselher, Iskra, Kayleigh and Reef. Mistle. Kind old Vysogota . . . Angoulême and Milva and Regis. And Geralt and Madam Yennefer. And Cahir and my beloved Galahad . . ._ How many people have suffered because of her? How many more would fall loving her? Protecting her?

Then, before Ciri could stop them, her tears came crashing over her, ripping the breath from her lungs like waves crashing on shore. Her sorrow came in raging swells and she wept for the first time in what felt like forever. She slid to her knees, too exhausted to keep standing, and Angoulême knelt beside her. For reasons she couldn’t explain, Angoulême started to cry too. Ciri fell into her, pressing her face into her neck, while Angoulême buried her face in Ciri’s. The two women sat there in the halls of Kaer Morhen, weeping, and holding each other silently.

How long they sat there, neither one could say. But eventually, it seemed there were no tears left to shed.

“Sorry . . . ” Ciri said, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. “About before. I was being foolish.”

Angoulême leaned against the wall, and folded her knees beneath her. “It’s okay. But . . . Why’d you get mad?”

Ciri hesitated. “I’m not sure, to be completely honest. I saw the way you acted around Cahir. I thought perhaps there was something there.”

Angoulême seemed to consider it, chewing on her lip thoughtfully. It was starting to make sense. “If we’re being completely honest . . . Yes. I love him, in my own way. He only considers me a sister of sorts, but I won’t say that I’ve never thought of what it would be like to lay with him.” The Dryads had little contact with men, so when Angoulême chose to stay with Milva, she’d had no one to turn to when she started to feel lonely. And it wasn’t like she’d known too many men before meeting Geralt, not men she’d like to remember, that is. So when she was feeling frustrated or lonely or sad, sometimes she would lie there, beneath her bed of leaves and trees, and picture him when she slipped a hand between her thighs, pretend that it was him touching her instead. But she would not tell Ciri that. “But like I said, he’s in love with you. And maybe it’s stupid, but it’s the truth.

“You feel the same way?” Angoulême’s eyes bore into her. “Otherwise, the possibility that he might’ve been mine wouldn’t have upset you.”

Ciri wasn’t entirely sure what she was feeling. For most of her life, she’d felt so lonely, wanted so terribly to be cared for she had mistaken cruelty and possession for love. She had said nothing when Kayleigh put his hands on her. Reward for helping to free him, he’d said. She’d convinced herself she loved Mistle. She still couldn’t erase the memories of the happy times they’d shared together, or the sadness she felt when Bonhart had killed her – though Mistle, she realized, was exactly like Kayleigh; she’d only wanted Ciri for herself. She’d convinced herself to lay with Auberon, to enjoy the way he touched her, to _want_ him. If only because being mistreated was better than being lonely.

But then Ciri met Galahad. Only he’d never treated her like his possession, like something to be owned. He loved her in the most natural way, never wanting more of her than she wanted in return. If she was happy, he was happy too. If she was feeling irritable, or miserable, he kept silent. If she needed space, he hung back, leaving her to her thoughts. If she needed to cry or scream, or talk, he listened and comforted her however she needed. Of course, he was human too, so there were times when he lost his patience, when he needed space himself, time to clear his head. They fought over silly things, hurling insults – though nothing too cruel – or saying they would part ways and be better for it. But those moments never lasted long. And Ciri loved him.

No one else had ever loved her the way Galahad had. There was no one else she’d ever loved like that – no one she could imagine loving like that, trusting like that.

But now . . . Now those feelings were starting to come back, slowly but surely. And it frightened her. 


End file.
